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“No, gracias. No, gracias. No, gracias,” Joy and I both said
repeatedly as we walked down the edge of the Plaza de Armas park in the middle
of Cusco, Peru. Our chant, rhythmic and on cadence, was a constant-flowing response
to the constant-flowing offers of goods and services along the street. One boy
wanted to shine our shoes- they’re sneakers, but he assured me it was possible.
A couple of ladies, resplendent in colorful hats and shawls and carrying baby
alpacas in slings, offered to let us take a picture with them. A few of the proprietors
or representatives of the restaurants and cafes that line the sides of the
streets would try to stick menus in our faces and turn us into their
storefronts. And many, many, many others would shout offers of tours, guides,
and information- some forcefully sticking pamphlets in our hands; others trying
to convince us that we’d miss the great Machupicchu altogether if we didn’t act
fast.
Joy decided to start replying only with “No, thanks,” in
English, and to pretend that she was a dumb American who couldn’t comprehend
the offers. I didn’t have to pretend at all.
I had started laughing almost as soon as we got out of our
taxi at the Plaza- the taxi, it turned out, that we had paid too much for by a
factor of three (more on that later). You would have laughed too. The whole
scene played out like a vaudeville reenactment of every exaggerated stereotype that
form the bases of every bad “touristy” joke we’d heard before coming south. It’s
a nuthouse.
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| Estelle! And beers on the beach in Mancora. |
And we were a couple of nuts… or fools… or “wallets with
legs”, as our friend Estelle, a pretty funny French girl we met in Máncora
would say. But the detour was worth the trouble, we decided. Originally, we
hadn’t planned on going to Cusco, or to Machupicchu, or to Peru at all, but
also originally, we had planned on
keeping everything as open-ended as possible so that we would be able to call
audibles if and/or when the breeze changed directions. So while in Ecuador, and
while contemplating how to get to Chile, we decided to go through Peru since it
was the natural course. And because we would be going through Peru, it also
made sense for us to visit Machupicchu. But the “naturalness” of this new course
meant that we would be foregoing the efficient luxury of a modern jet from
Ecuador to Chile for the more experience-savoring journey of bus-riding through
half of Ecuador and almost all of Peru. Oh joy.
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| Cruz del Sur rest stop. |
Some people will tell you that no South American trek is
complete without at least one 20-hour bus ride. Those people are idiots. My ass
still hurts just thinking about it. Our trip from Lima to Cusco alone ended up being
22 ½ hours of uninterrupted bus-riding fun. Or 30 ½ hours from Huaraz to Cusco,
with a five-hour layover in Lima- if you want to look at it that way. And that
wouldn’t even count the six hours from Baños to Guayaquil, Ecuador or the
nine hours from Guayaquil to Máncora, Peru or the 13 hours from Máncora
to Casma, Peru where we walked across town, with our backpacks and flip-flops,
at five in the morning until we stumbled across a colectivo that would take us the remaining three hours to Huaraz.
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| Early morning, Lima, Peru. Waiting for the Starbucks to open. |
Colectivos are
little wannabe buses. And ‘colectivo’,
as far as I can tell, is Spanish for “a collective bunch of idiots who pile
into every possible free square inch of space inside a small, skinny van that
is driven by one maniac while another younger, crazier maniac tries to squeeze in
more idiots from the side of the road every quarter-mile or so.” Kind of a long
translation, I know, but fitting; except I don’t think they use inches and
miles down here. Colectivos really
are more fun than buses, but only if you love being intimately familiar with
the hygiene habits of the other passengers and enjoy having knees pushing into
your back for the duration of your ride.
The colectivo
system in Peru is actually quite an efficient means of transportation in a
country where many people don’t have cars or the ability to afford taxis. Once
a person is familiar with what colectivos
are going which direction- usually with a specific destination- it is relatively
easy to catch a ride by going to the proper colectivo-stop
or by just waving your hand at the young maniac who is usually riding with his
head and upper torso stuck out of the side window looking for more idiots to
wedge in.
We didn’t see colectivos
in the major cities (although they could have been there) but did in all the
small towns in Peru we stopped at. The “pooled” costs help create a cheap means
of transportation, as long as you don’t get too queasy after seeing 18 people
crawl into or out of one of these clown cars, and as long as you don’t mind the
young maniac yelling at you to hurry up and get in (or get out), as if every
second you waste is drawing down his personal college fund, and if you have a relatively good idea
of where you’re going, because if you don’t know, don’t expect a lot of help.
Well, let me rephrase that: don’t expect a lot of correct help. Many of the maniacs will give you an answer- it’s up
to you to determine if it’s the right answer.
Joy and I learned this the hard way in Huaraz when we jumped
into a colectivo by the river and
asked the driver to drop us off at the caballos para paseos (horses for rent)
near Yungar. He assured Joy that he knew where to go (I was blissfully staring
straight ahead and trying not to puke- another downside of colectivos for motion-sickness victims), and then proceeded to take
us an hour past our intended destination and drop us off in the middle of
nowhere next to an old burro tied to a stump.
It was funny. Genuinely. It was like something you would see
in a movie about two fools trying to make their way across South America. But
what was even funnier was watching me try to argue with the driving maniac
about what I thought was an overcharge while the younger maniac kept trying to
shut my face in the door. For everyone who has not had the pleasure of hearing
me try to speak Spanish, every word I say is slow, deliberate, purposefully
enunciated, and clipped off into a sentence of its own. So our debate, taking
place in the middle of some road somewhere in Peru, consisted of the driver
maniac saying about 400 words at the rate of 1500 words per minute, then me
replying with something like, “Si. Pero. El. Otro. Hombre. Nos. Dijo. Que.
Solo. Va. A. Costar. Cinco. Soles.” Then he’d spout some more words from his Gatling
gun, none of which I’d understand, mind you, and but I’d reply stoically,
calmly, and oh-so-slowly to what I assumed he had said (which was probably
something like, “Give me my damn money you moronic gringo so that I can get
these other 15 people to their stops before the blood stops circulating to
their limbs, and before I have to take the young maniac to the ER for having a
heart attack as a result of wasting 20 seconds of precious idiot-stuffing time
arguing with you in the middle of the damn road while you struggle with the
first-grade level Spanish you learned off of a cassette tape you bought at a
truck-stop somewhere in moronic gringo land”.) “Si. Pero. Solo. Debemos. Pagar.
Cinco. Soles.” And on and on we went until I finally gave him his money (a
predictable outcome, especially given the foam that was starting to come out of
the young maniac’s nose and mouth, and the deep red veins that were starting to
show in his eyeballs) and Joy and I were left standing in the middle of the
road contemplating whether to try and find somebody we could give some money to
in order to ride the damn donkey and to keep the trip from being a total waste,
or if we should just call it a day and go find a beer somewhere. We opted for
the latter, and yes, just crammed into the next colectivo that came by going in the opposite direction.
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| Post-colectivo beers. |
After that experience, we have learned how to get by pretty
well in the colectivo system, and we
almost always get to where we’re going. And we’ve also learned that if you are
a white tourist fool that looks like either Joy or Zac it is a good idea to try
and understand the common taxi rates of an area before actually taking a taxi
and paying the standard 3x gringo adder. But we’ve still not learned how to
make a 20-hour bus ride comfortable. I’m not sure if that’s even possible. But
we did our best.
Joy read one novel (yes, most everyone knows that if Joy
only read one novel on a 20-hour bus ride then she probably slept for 12 or so
hours.) I ate six Dramamine tablets…and slept a bunch, too. And we both utilized
the ear-plugs Mom sent with us. Joy also used a blindfold at times- I just
covered my eyes with my ball cap for 18 out of the 22 hours.
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| Coast of Peru. Sunset from a bus seat. |
The bus was nice, too. For our long-hauls we have been
taking 2-level tour buses and buying seats en el primer piso where it’s a lot
like the first-class cabin of a large plane- except that the bus seats recline
a LOT farther back. So it’s not like we were riding with chickens for 20 hours;
it’s just that 20 hours is way too damn long to be on a bus. Period. Amen. We
have since made a mutual executive decision to try and limit individual bus
rides to 10-hour maximums, and to try to catch those ones during the night,
when we can sleep, and you know, not pay for a hotel room.
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| Train to Machupicchu |
We thought that maybe we could find some trains to ride too,
but after rolling to the rhythm of the train from Ollantaytambo to Aguas
Calientes, on our way from Cusco to Machupicchu, and spending most of the ride
trying to keep that morning’s breakfast from erupting into the laps of the two
Colombian girls sitting across from us, I’ve gently steered Joy away from the
train idea. The rest of the trip to Machupicchu was fun though. Our hike up the
Inca stairs was a nice break from public transport of all types; it was a reprieve
from the other tourists as well. And the Machupicchu ruins themselves are
spectacular. But my memories of Peru will likely always be dominated by big bus
rides, crazy colectivos, and the
oppressive, overwhelming, tourist-chewing nuthouse that is Cusco, Peru. If you
ever go, make your first stop to Paddy’s Pub where you can drink a large draft
beer to help you forget about the taxi-raping you just endured, and where you
can buy a t-shirt for 11 soles that you should wear proudly as you walk across
the Plaza de Armas, closed-mouthed, and pointing at the screen-printed letters
on your chest that read: “No, gracias”.
