once

Puno

I take what I said about Arequipa back. I really love Puno. It is a city by the sea, a city on a hill, a city with adobe buildings and reed islands and cheap, cheap crepes. At 11,000 feet, we are close to heaven.

morning

We wake up at eight, lay around etc. until ten. I love vacation.

Try as we might to get banana pancakes for breakfast--according to the Bible, they are "the thing here-- we failed miserably. The Bistro/Crepeteria we spotted yesterday was closed, bakeries were closed, and all other cafes were closed. It IS Sunday-- is everyone at church??

NO! They are in a PARADE!!!

Around and around the plaza march children and teenagers. They wear uniforms suggesting boy scouts or prep school. They march in straight lines, arms swinging, and legs kicked out to the beat of the marching band stationed before the cathedral. There are scores and scores of kids. The whole town has come out to watch the parade! The police presence is incredible. Every uniform has a large gun. I spot a soldier/policeman whose gun is equipped with a bayonet. !What?!

We gather that the parade is in honor of some academic anniversary. Groups of kids march and march and more kids continue to come around the corner. They seem to be divided by gender and age. After thirty minutes, we tear our eyes away in search of food.

We find the Cultural Center, a cute place just off the plaza. Off the plaza just enough that we can still hear the band as it plays for CLOSE TO AN HOUR MORE. While eating, we peruse picture books about Peru´s flora, fauna, and animals. I read up on Paracas National Park, since we didn´t see any animals there. (Even though we DID go there, we did!) Then we play checkers. I win.

It starts to rain. We move inside. Rain turns to pouring buckets. And then-- it hails! Tiny pieces of ice, falling from the sky. We could hear them tapping on the roof. But when I stood in the doorway looking out, you see, looking out into the patio and the orange building in from of me, from what I could see, the sky was blue!! Hail from nowhere.

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Chucuito

We decide to forgo a boating trip to the floating islands on acount of the thunder and lightening, and instead visit the town where they actually MAKE the famous reed boats Puno is famous for. Oh, and also the city which houses the Templo de Fertilidad, a phallus-filled ancient structure the Good Book dubs, "bizarre." When Lonely Planet says something is "bizarre" or "weird," we come running.

Chucuito is a tiny town with cobblestone streets and adobe houses. I love it. Temple de Fertilidad is several blocks from the plaza. We are accosted by several kids en route volunteering to tell us the Temple´s history. We decline.

The Temple is quite bizarre, all right. A one-roomed affair, the entire floor is lined with two-foot stone penises. We take pictures. We try to think of crude poses, but everything is overkill. Instead, we shop at the stalls set up in the Temple´s courtyard. I consider buying a metal penis keychain to add to my collection of little metal artifacts (totem pole from Seattle, train from Sacramento, etc), but think better of it. In the end, Wade buys seven finger puppets of various animals, and I buy alpaca wool gloves and a hat with pictures of llamas.

On our way out of t town, we see a large vehicle parked on the side of the road. It looks rather out of place. It has tractor wheels and reinforced windows. Apparently, it is an RV-type 4x4 monster vehicle used for long travel, like down the entire Pan-American highway. While I am thinking, oh, a big car, Wade wets himself with excitement.

I manage to drag him away into a cemetary in the back of a cathedral. The crypts are all above ground, some stacked three by three like little grave apartment buildings.

We catch a combi to Chimu. Twenty four people are squished into this vehicle, clearly a record. Our personal best, at least.

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Chimu

Chimu is less like a town, more like a stretch of land on the lake with random dwellings every so often. Yet, it is so peaceful and lovely.

We see reeds laying out to dry, women rolling up bunches of reeds into stack to be shipped, and also rolling them up into mattresses. We walk the fine line between lake marsh and hills, separated only by the highway.

On one stretch of Chimu, the hills resemble sand drip castles, only fatter, as if God threw down a fist-fill of clay and the sheer force of it caused all sorts of bulges and ripples. We decide to climb a particularly prominent outcropping, about seventy feet high.

From above, we can see Puno, roofs sparkling in the afternoon sun. We can see mountains on the opposite side of the lake, land we presume to be Bolivia. Although actually, the lake is so big that what we see was just a big island. Up on the rock feels free. The clouds roll over the water, the reed marshes reflect little sunlight like greasy mirrors, the air cold and windy. It was a place you just sat and stared around, taking in the view from your isolated and elevated perch.

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cafe I´m in love

Back in Puno, we take a bicycle taxi to the Plaza. Though honestly, we could have walked faster. We buy bread and fruit for our night bus ride, and I find sunglasses to replace the ones I sat on. Though not large and round, these are super dark.

We go to the now-open Bistro/Crepeteria eat crepes (piña y chocolate), drink tea (manzanilla), and write in journals. It is here that I fall in love. With the cafe.

They are playing Achinoam Nini!! Noa!! An Israeli singer, who I love, whose album I own, who is rather famous in Israel and somwhat well-known amongst American Jews. THE PERUVIAN CAFE IS PLAYING NOA!!!

I am flipping my shit over this. I ask the waitress how they got the music, and she says the cook, who is French, has a large collection of music, and this is his CD. Small, connected world!

Noa is singing Boe Kalah, our Zimriyah song from last summer. I can´t stop smiling from the familiar. When you are in a foreign country, you immerse yourself in the food, the clothing, the history, the colors, the smells of the place. You try hard to understand the new way of life. You try to almost think like the Natives, to become more used to the enviroment. Anything familiar brings a sort of comfort. All of a sudden, you are jostled by your own memory. You remember that you come from a culture of your own. You, too, have a history. You, too, have your own food, your own clothing, your own colors and smells and sounds. For a few minutes, I feel like I am at home again, where I live a life of comfort and can pick out my own music.

Later, we Internet in some sketchy place. We take a night bus to Cuzco. We have to argue with Mr. Ticket Man for twenty minutes about bringing our packs on the bus. We absolutely do not want to put our stuff underneath the bus. Too many horror stories about missing or stolen luggage. MTM eventually sighs in surrender when we point to the bus next to us, in which a man is sitting with his suitcase at his feet.

Our Royal Class seats in the front of the balcony were everything they promised to be, and more. Fully reclining, full view of the road, quite cushy. The only notable event in the bus ride was when the bus hit a rock, and we had to stop for several minutes while the driver did who-knows-what. Also, it was FREEZING. Think of the coldest plane you have ever been on. This was probably not that cold, but still, it was at least CHILLY.

We arrive in Cuzco at dawn. After hostel jumping a few times, we find an OK one with amazing views of the plaza and the city. We get a triple for thirty sols. A triple!! Why settle for two beds when you can have three! I sleep, burrowed under several alpaca quilts, until eleven.