Peru Part 4: The way to Chivay

From Arequipa I engaged in one of my least favorite forms of travel. Since my time was limited and I couldn't rent a car, a guided tour was my only option for traveling down into the Colca Canyon to Chivay and Cruz del Condor.

Carlos, the guide for the Colca Canyon tour, showed up late with a van full of other tourists, so I had the privilege of squeezing in up front with him and the driver. The group was made up of an Italian couple, an English couple, two young English guys backpacking across South America, and a Finnish couple with their adopted Peruvian daughter. Carlos explained everything in English and Spanish and our little fish took to only listening to him in Spanish. Since we were sitting so cozily together in the front we got to talking non-stop. In that privileged position, I got five times the information out of him as the rest of the travelers, who probably weren’t that interested in what he had to say anyway.

The drive to the canyon was a long four hours. We passed through large ranges where we were lucky enough to spot vicunas grazing and were given a detailed lesson on the differences between llamas, alpacas, vicunas, and guanacos. We continued ascending in altitude and even passed through the crater of a volcano. Before reaching too great a height, we stopped at a small restaurant surrounded by nothing else for a cup of Mate tea. Mate is a special highland drink made from leaves of the coca plant that supposedly helps people become acclimatized to the altitude. With two heaping spoonfuls of sugar it is drinkable. Afterward in the parking lot, I had my first opportunity to put my knowledge of llama/alpaca classification into practice and correctly identified the animal hanging around by the restrooms as an alpaca.

The minivan continued up and up passing small highland lakes while the towering volcanoes shrank into undaunting hills. When we reached the highest point of the trip we all stopped, scrambled out of the van and felt the dizzying and chilling effect of 16,000ft. Surrounding our daring explorers were pyramids of rocks, some small, some large. Not just a few pyramids, but hundreds, thousands covering the top of the mountain. According to Carlos, it is an Incan tradition. Each rock in the pyramid is a wish. One builds a pyramid to communicate those wishes to the gods, and the pyramids must be built at high altitudes so as to be closer to the gods. Amidst the wishes of who-knows how many years sat five women all trying to sell identical alpaca sweaters, gloves and hats.

From this point the road began its descent towards Chivay a town down in the canyon. Our group stopped once or twice more to photograph llamas and alpacas grazing. Funny how back home no one would even consider stopping to photograph a field of sheep, yet in the Andes a flurry of shutter clicks accosted the local livestock. Further along we hopped out again to admire the canyon. The snowcapped volcanoes slid down behind the other side of the canyon. The slopes that tapered down inside it were terraced in the Incan tradition and irrigated by the runoff from the snow packs of the volcanoes. At other times of the year the valley turned a lush green and the fields were ripe with crops, but in August when this tourista visited the soil was resting and the locals were paying their respects to the Pachamama or Mother Earth. Therefore, the dormant patches of land painted a rather dreary landscape in varied shades of brown and gold.

Once in the town of Chivay the excursion stopped at a local restaurant and all filed in and ordered the menu del día, except for the Finnish couple who went off in search of something that they considered more suitable. For 12 soles the menu del día included one of three different kinds of soup or salad, a choice of about ten different main courses, a drink and dessert. Since it was late, all of the famished travelers greedily welcomed the food though it took Carlos a while to translate the menu for everyone. Carlos’ meal came last. I being safe with the lomo saltado, asked our guide what his rather odd looking main course was after noting something that looked like a tiny leg and foot on his plate. He explained that he had ordered cuy, a typical highland dish. Once again Lonely Planet trivia came in handy and I quickly recalled that roast guinea pig is called cuy. Friendly Carlos offered to let his traveling companion taste his food, but I politely refused.

Without another glance at the guide’s fare, I finished of the last of the lomo saltado while Carlos chided me for not being brave enough to order the alpaca steak. With lunch finished each tourist was shuttled off to his or her accommodations. The Finnish couple and Fish Girl were ushered off to a cold wind tunnel that called itself a hotel. Finding the wind chill factor unacceptable and noting that at night the temperature would drop well below freezing and the hotel was not equipped with any means of heating, the Finnish couple let out a squawk and set off in search of a more suitable establishment. This traveler, who will always be a Southern California girl at heart, shivered and quivered, but I was also traveling on a budget and so I made due by piling all of the blankets from the extra bed in my room onto mine and burrowing into it. A bit later Carlos herded the group together and whisked us off to the local hot springs. This un-bathed, starting-to-smell, still-plagued–by-Huacachina-sand traveler welcomed the opportunity to sink into a pool of hot water even if it did reek of sulfur.

After two hours at the hot springs I found myself waiting near the minivan talking to the driver. He noticed me staring at the sky and asked if I could locate the Southern Cross. As I confessed that Icould not he got out and pointed at a general section of sky. “There, there is the Southern Cross.” I looked there and next to there, and to its left and right and just to be safe above there and below there but somehow could not make out the Cross. Carlos returned and joined the driver in pointing and insisting that the Southern Cross was there. This confounded fish stared and strained and imagined that every set of four stars formed the Southern Cross. Finally, Carlos pointed out a hill and told me to imagine a line going up. Then suddenly, it was there.

The others returned to the van, most not interested in star gazing, and the troop returned to their hotels. Time was allowed for freshening up before a group meal and show. The Finnish couple had the right idea, they passed on the evening. The rest of us were herded into a large room given a menu of everything typical to choose from. Then the music began. I doubt that any traveler in Peru, at least one who spent more than a day there, has managed to eat a meal without hearing pan pipe music. In limited doses it is quite beautiful music, but it becomes a pathetic cliché when it accompanies nearly every feeding stop. So as not to loose our attention dancers who went through a whirlwind of costume changes pepped up the music. Near the end they expected us to join them and the pair went around the room pleading with tourists to dance with them. Most were willing to watch, listen and eat, but only a daring few accepted the challenge of the dance floor. At around nine we began begging Carlos to let us return to our hotels. Departure time for the next morning was scheduled for an aching 6:30am. That meant, waking, dressing, packing and eating all before chugging off to gape at the condors. At 9:30 Carlos finally consented to our leaving.