Stuck in Arequipa

I walked out of our hostel into the blinding sunlight that beat down upon the cobbled streets and bounced off the white sillar walls that stretched down the road towards the Plaza de Armas. Small, yellow taxis that might once have been Fiat Puntos, screech round corners and beep their pathetic, plaintive horns in the hope that someone will make way. Walking down the street you pass street vendors selling a non-descript meat scewered on a wooden pole and left to sizzle for hours on a charcoal burner, looking sad next to some dessicated, shrivelled potatoes. Toothless men in rags shelter in doorways and hold their caps out to you as you pass. Women pass in suits, shopkeepers throw water onto the pavement and scrub and you gain tantalysing glimpses of quiet, damp courtyards where people laze around and relax to the sound of gurgling water, surrounded by geraniums and the blue or ochre walls of yet another colonial building.

This is Arequipa, the City of the Eternal Blue Sky, a large, prosperous city in the South West of Peru that is renowned for being conservative and resenting the domination of Lima. The historic centre of the city has been declared a World Heritage Sight because of the uniformity of the architecture; almost all the colonial buildings are made of an off-white volcanic rock, Sillar and the city is dotted with mestizo architecture, featuring intricate stonework, leaves and grapes. In front of every church stands a green cross with a ladder that represents the fusion of the Catholic church with Incan and Pre-Incan religion. Despite the attacks of Dawkins and the onslaught of evolution, religion is still going strong here in South America (though perhaps it is on the decline) and signs of religious devotion can be found at every turn. It is, after all, called the Rome of the Americas. Near our favourtie nightclub, Deja Vu, the outstretched arm of a stern looking priest beckons the traveller onwards and in the adjacent street lies the huge monastery of Santa Catalina. It was opened to the public in 1970 after over three hundred years of seclusion and is a city within a city, its narrow streets and passageways winding their way past cloisters, potted plants, fountains and the cell of one Sor Anna who was made saint by Pope John Paul II for the miracles that she was said to have performed.

There was something exciting about losing yourself in this haven of tranquility, calm and peaceful despite the hundreds of tourists who pay to enter every day. Wherever you wander through the thick walls, you are confronted with the imposing outline of Misti volcano which hangs over the town, only a few kilometres from the city centre. It is still active and the overwhelming power of Arequipa´s tectonic forces have been can be seen in the ruins of one part of the monastery. Earthquakes devastate Arequipa on a regular basis and in 1868, the city was almost razed to the ground, only to be rebuilt by its industrious citizens. People are still drawn to the volcano, though, because of the fertile volcanic ash that is spewed over the surrounding fields and on a tour of the city, we saw hundreds of small, tin-roofed shacks and homesteads creeping their way up the steep slopes.

Where today´s citizens of Arequipa look to science to predict an earthquake, their ancestors looked to the Gods. The Andes mountain chain that runs up the Western coast of South America bristels with volcanos and no city more so than Arequipa which is surrounded by the Misti, Chachani and Pichu Pichu volcanos. The Inca empire expanded rapidly in the fifteenth century under the Emperor, Mayta Capac. Walking through the desert with his soldiers, they stumbled across the beautiful oasis of Arequipa, then inhabited by primitive, semi-sedentary tribes. The legend goes that tired by the long journey and in seek of rest, or enticed to live in the area by the beautiful, fertile land, Capac´s soldiers asked him if they could stop there. He replied in Quechua, "Ari Qhipay" (si quedaos), which means "Yes, stop here". Hence the name Arequipa. When natural (and perhaps political?) disasters occured anywhere in the Inca empire, a human sacrifice would be offered to the Gods to appease them. The Incas viewed volcanos as living beings who could be beneficient or wrathful, taking revenge on humans with ash and smoke. Many daughters of noble families grew up in the knowledge that they would be sacrificed to the Gods and their umbilical cord was kept so that it could be buried with them, a bridge to the beyond. Whenever an eruption occured, a ceremony would be performed in Cusco and a party would set out with the sacrificial offering, sometimes travelling thousands of kilometres to reach volcanoes of 6000 metres or higher. They scaled the mountains in replacable straw boots, cut steps into the hillside, survived artic temperatures before finally killing the intoxicated charge with a swift blow to the head. In the 1990s a thirteen year old girl, Juanita, was found on the volcano, Ampato (following the eruption of a nearby volcano that melted the thick layers of ice) and was moved to Arequipa for preservation. She is startling well preserved, hunched up in a chamber of ice, her skin and nails perfectly intact, except for drops of fat purged from her skin. Her eye sockets are black holes. The irony is that we are just as impotent as the Incas in preventing earthquakes and eruptions. At least they had peace of mind.

The Arequipenas are said to be rather haughty and consider themselves superior to the rest of Peru. In a nightclub I got chatting to a girl who asked me what I thought of Bolivia. When I replied that it was my favourite country so far, she furrowed her brow and retorted that all Bolivians were ugly and uneducated and that their cities were nothing compared to Peru. She obviously hasn´t been to Potosi or Tarija. In one breath she cast scorn not only upon Bolivia, but upon her compatriots in the Peruvian jungle and countryside who look not towards Europe and America but towards Pachamama (mother earth) and Pachatata. This kind of attitude may explain the muted reaction to government atrocities in the province of Bagua, northern Peru, where police opened fire upon indigenous protestors. The government has passed a law that is inimical to the indigenous citizens because it allows the government to exploit their natural habitat in order to extract oil and gas. They set up roadblocks and the government responded with violence. Around twenty policemen were killed along with an undetermined number of indigenous, whose bodies may have been collected by the police and dropped into the thick of the jungle from planes. Here in Arequipa, people put up posters denouncing the government and a small procession filed through the square, but there was no great public outrage. The air didn´t buzz with the news of murder. People continued to drink their coffee and eat oozing slabs of chocolate cake with blissful apathy. This is surely what happens when people see murder as an every day occurrence.

There was no chocolate cake in the Colca Canyon, a deep scar on the land that is reputed to be the deepest canyon in the world. Some even claim that it is twice as deep as the Grand Canyon, but David and I have been lied to so many times in Peru that we now assume a healthy scepticism. We took an overnight bus to the canyon, tried to sleep on an overcrowded bus that jumped around on the rough road and I almost lost my walking boots in the bustle. Our first view of the canyon was spectacular. Unlike the Grand Canyon that drops vertically down from the desert, Colca Canyon looks like a valley whose narrow bed curves between interlocking spurs and outcrops of rock that look like the butress roots of some great redwood. In some places, the hillside descends in sheer drops of lineated rock, but they are few and far between, allowing the hiker to walk down into the canyon on a steep path. We passed walkers who couldn´t speak for shouldering their packs and small, wizened locals who skipped past us on shortcuts worn into the rock. We reached the base of the canyon within three hours which is surprisingly green given that the river Colca is almost dry and that the deep gullies that descend from the snow-capped mountains are full of rocks show no hint of moisture. We climbed again, drank an Inka Kola (which tastes identical to Irn Bru, but contains yellow colouring instead of orange) in front of a stuffed fox and skidded our way down once more towards the Oasis where I collapsed into a hammock, surrounded by brutal, orange rock.

The narrow path zigzagged its way crazily up a hillside in a steep ascent that would have befitted the Incas. It was five in the morning and the sun had not yet come up as we began the climb, bananas in hand. The path was lit by a full moon and the sky glittered with stars. The first half of the walk passed without incident, apart from a rabid dog that gave me a nip on the knee. We scared it away with stones. The second half of the treck showed me how unfit I have become. As the sun began to rise, casting its horizontal rays over the canyon, David began to forge ahead and I lagged behind, breathing hard and looking at my feet. The path stretching on ahead was just too depressing. By the time I reached the top, I was my back was bathed in sweat. Orios have never tasted so good. The canyon is also famous for Condors and we went in search of them, attempting to reach a viewpoint by climbing over a wall. As I raised my weight onto a stone, it gave way and my outstretched hands fell forwards onto a cactus bristling with spines. Five long spines had pierced my left hand through my alpaca gloves, one of them driven a few centimetres into the skin. I tried to pull them out myself, but couldn´t handle the pain. A tour guide led me to a hospital draped with a poster warning against hepatitis. The nurse inside reassured me that I would live by recounting the story of a tour guide who had fallen backwards onto a cactus. One of the spines had pierced his lung.

I am writing such a long and convoluted blog because I can. A transport strike around Cusco has meant that no buses have left Arequipa for Cusco in the last four days. Today a normal service was resumed and we hope to travel to Cusco tonight, hopefully avoiding the marauding mob armed with stones. I have not yet mentioned the food here in Arequipa. The city is known as the gastronomic capital of Peru and much of the traditional food is served in Picanterias which serve spicy food and meat in an intimate setting. Cebicherias (this may be a spelling mistake since the dish is called Ceviche) serve raw fish marinated in lime juice and served with chilli and sweet potato. Chicha is a strong alcoholic drink made from maize and Rocoto relleno is another famous local dish. Rocoto is a spicy vegetable similar to Chili and about the size of an apple which is rellenado (filled) with meat and fish. And of course, you can´t forget the cuy (guinea pig) which arrives on you plate with head intact and leering teeth.

On a more frivolous note, nobody here in Peru seems to understand the difference between Scotland and England. Walking around a supermarket, I caught sight of some sweets called English toffees. On the packet is a picture of a rabidly scottish scotsman with flaming hair, kilt and bagpipes. A local newspaper referred to Andy Murray as English, an unpardonable offence, and the official drink of Arequipa is Kola Escocesa, a sickly purple drink which has no discernible link to Scotland. Do you think Scotland receives a share of the profits? I am also wondering whether the harsh wind of Patagonia has marred my virgin looks. When I got into a taxi to take me to the bus station on Saturday, the driver started questioning me about how I could afford such an expensive trip. I answered and then looked out of the window again. A minute later, he suddenly blurted out And how does it feel to leave you wife back in England?