(Juliaca – Cuzco, Peru)
The national strike that caused a pleasant day’s stranding in Arequipa (and a largely empty midnight flight to Juliaca, where the airport carousel is decorated with a line of Barbie Dolls in ethnic costume) is a ripper. The government is raising the tourist entry fees to key sites by 600%, none of which will go to local communities.
In Arequipa, roads were blocked by taxi drivers in solidarity with striking coach drivers and other tourism workers. Police in full riot gear were lurking were lurking around the corner of the Plaza Des Armas in case the 20 protesters and 30 Mormons got nasty.
The unrest spread suddenly as I was whiling away my day on Lake Titicaca among floating islands and variously costumed Indian groups who were absolutely in control of their own land: they run a quota system so that tourism profits are spread evenly throughout the community. Tourist numbers are limited by quotas. I’m not entirely thrilled that our small boat load was referred to as the “Titi” group, but I digress…
On return into an orange sunset, all boats stop about 400 metres out from Puno Port, so we could all put on the lifejackets that we had not worn all day. The police checked us in our jackets on arrival. The jackets were removed to be stored to be unused by the next lot of passengers. We were then informed that there was a 48 hour transport strike in solidarity with the workers of Calca Canyon.
There would be buses at 6pm to get to Cuzco before midnight (when the strike was scheduled), and don’t even think about the train.
In the next 80 minutes:
The courier who forgot to collect me for the morning cruise materialised – 7 year old son in tow – and rushed me to the hotel to pack.
She was a vibrant and beautiful woman.
She asked if I wanted to “do the markets” before the bus.
Dinner was offered (but where my passport might be and whether my laundry was dry were kind of occupying my mind…)
Speedily packed and ready, we called ahead for a fast sandwich on the way to the bus. It was 5.35.
My elegant courier asked about my marital status and said she was married to the job.
We landed at the café to find nothing organised.
She formally introduced me to her son.
Hot sweet corn and evaporated milk cakes appeared, steaming, delicious and wrapped in maize leaves.
She talked about how much she enjoyed theatre and art, and that Puno was a backwater where she had no life.
A mountain of club sandwiches and coffee on a huge jug of hot water appeared.
She left me to get acquainted with the child. It was now 5.55pm.
She reappeared to say: “ Don’t worry about the 6pm bus. They know me there and they won’t go without you.”
The mountain of food was way too much. Would I mind if sonny boy finished it while I paid our bill and we looked for the bus?
But of course.
And here is the name of the street in Cuzco where beautiful Peruvian women go to meet husbands from other countries.
No bus. Found it around the corner. Dumped bag. Got onto bus.
Lingering farewell embrace at the top of the bus steps as the driver revved loudly, impatient to leave.
…………..
The road trip to Cuzco was non-stop wild, presumably to get away from the Puno area before picket lines were set up. I’m not at all phased by loaded tour buses overtaking each other at high speed on narrow roads approaching crests. Really. It was a straight 6 hour drive, with the music system turned to LOUD, pumping out Andean music, ABBA, Blondie, Bee Gees and Grease… as I enjoyed my special snack of corn cakes that had been handed to me as my courier sashayed of the bus in Puno.
And at 3am I awoke in Cuzco, gasping in the thin high-altitude air and realising that my hand washing was still hanging over the basin in Puno.
…………….
So here I am in the “Kathmandu” of Peru, surrounded by stunning scenery (and out-of-town roadblocks), culture, art, pre and post colonial history, and starting my day by looking for someone who might sell socks and jocks.
I see my breakfast order of alpaca steak is arriving.
