Grief, High speed and a roasted rodent

Again I sit, in that lonely café. The past week, an interesting one, of adventure, discovery, change and a small roasted rodent. Much has happened but I will start with a party.

One of our number, a Colombian American with experience as an event organizer set up a masquerade ball for the girls and the boys. Using an auditorium below the boys’ orphanage we spent the week leading to it preparing masks for ourselves and invites for the girls. Using a crafting knife to cut card and managing to avoid any injury we gave the girls and boys their invites on the Friday before the ball. Upon seeing the masks we brought for them and invites the children’s faces lit up with excitement, and you could see the more creative ones planning their masks already. Eventually Saturday came and with it the ball, the volunteers and I had spent the day putting finishing touches to our masks and our surprise dance routine to “We are Family”. With the doors to the auditorium open, the decorations in place and our masks firmly attached to our faces we awaited the arrival of the children. Processing through an archway of balloons they entered the room and were greeted by we masked volunteers, directing them to the buffet of food we had prepared and the face painting station set up by one of our own. With the grand entrances over we managed to sit the children down. Taking a few deep breaths we mounted the stage and rolled the music, with only a few comical bugger ups we carried out the routine as best a group of amateurs could who had practiced once and not practiced very hard. With the laughter of kids filling the room we eventually took a bow and then watched as the girls and the boys performed their own dance routines. Making our dance look like a performance of shaven orangutans, we were given the honour of seeing the girls human pyramid, and the boys impressive step and shuffle dancing. After applause and cake the party eventually became a big dance with the girls and boys all together in one big ring, swiftly transforming into a 40 person conga line. Breaking apart the big line became many small lines, which from above must have looked like a small family of snakes dancing with each other. Eventually dances like the Macarena took hold and those of us (me included) who didn’t know the routines sat back and took pictures, moving in and out of dances as we could, or being dragged into the floor by one of the girls. Around 9 the party started to wind down with the boys and girls saying goodbye and the boys thanking us for the party. John the event organizer looked very happy and he deserved to, it was a wonderful evening topped off by a quick group dinner where we proudly talked on the events of the evening.

The joviality of the previous night was soon broken though, as one of our number and a person who was very good to me had to leave the next day. After a quick breakfast we saw her back to the Orphanage and silently stood guard as she said her tearful goodbyes to the kids. We walked her to the taxi and said our own goodbyes and well wishes. And if she is reading this now I would like to say thanks for everything and wish you the best of luck in what you eventually decide to do next.

At the suggestion of a small advert in the bottom corner of a local magazine a group of us decided to explore the countryside surrounding Cusco, from the comfort of quad bikes. Having paid the small sum of 20 pounds was sent in taxis to an area of town that looked like a small outlying village which the urban sprawl had not yet finished swallowing. Bad plumbing, decrepit telephone lines and a rural building style were mixed with freshly laid pavements internet cafes and modern transportation. Upon leaving the taxi we felt ill at ease suddenly unsure of whether we would be biking in the hills of being buried in them. After some minutes silently pondering this we were greeted by a woman who told us to follow her. Leading us down a back alley and up small dirt track we followed cautiously, the image of shallow graves still flitting through our minds. Approaching a mud brick wall with an old green gate, that seemed to be hanging on by sheer force of will rather than good hinges, we passed into a small garden in which the bikes we were to use were lined up and waiting. Choosing our bikes (I hurriedly chose the Yamaha big bear), we were given helmets, a quick lesson on how to ride and then we set off. Creeping through the old green gate, the rain began to hammer down, a torrent of soaking cold that caught us unprepared and soaked some of us through to the soul. With the raining only getting harder our guide pushed us on, moving fast we climbed the mountains on dirt tracks meant for quarrying machines and the occasional brave taxi driver. Eventually escaping the rain we stopped off to see the view of the city from above. Looking down on the city, now shuddering under the rain we had previously had the pleasure of meeting. From above the city has clear areas, the older part of the city, centered on the old colonial Plazas and churches. And the newer part which at its heart, representing its modern ways sits the airport. Surrounded by buildings and mountains I cannot imagine that it is an easy place to land, and when planes do come and go the entire city erupts with noise. Disturbing if you were unaware that this would happen, but oddly comforting when you realize it is not an earthquake. Moving on from the city palisades we entered into the deeper countryside. We turned off the used roads and onto small tracks used by animals, locals and the occasional bikers. Deep in the bush we were surrounded by trees and undergrowth, despite not being far from the road, it felt like we deep in the jungle riding to find a way out which may never appear. The bush eventually thinning out we preceded high up the side of the mountain, snaking up the side enjoying the views as it expanded with every hairpin. At the highest point we looked out, the city behind us and in front the slopes and farmlands of rural Peru. From afar it reminded me of Roman Italy, with white buildings and terracotta roves. After a quick rest we pushed on, heading into the deep country. Traversing puddles, ponds and Peruvians we eventually came to a small village. While beautiful from afar, up close the illusion was broken, white buildings became mud bricks, held together by gravity and generations of know-how. The terracotta became rusted corrugated iron and plastic, with the occasional terracotta roof on the local post office or shop. In the villages the children, excited by the bikes and the noise ran with us, or high fived us as we passed. While the adults of the looked on with tolerant disdain, obviously used to foreigners passing through. One shouted at our guide, directing him out of the village, and not looking happy when we eventually had to pass back through. Moving fast now we eventually reached a second view point of the city, with the rain cleared the city seemed more alive and the noise of urban life gently wafted into the air. Taking in the city, and seeing how far it has grown and realizing the hunger of it was an intimidating moment. I said earlier that the city will never be finished, but seeing the more simple way of life not ten miles outside of the city you wonder whether this hunger for more space and more people is not affecting the way of life for those who choose to stay away. Thinking on this, we moved back the way we came, greeting the children, and dodging the puddles. Until we returned to the old/new neighbourhood. Climbing into taxis home we were tired, but thankfully dry. And after a quick shower and cup of tea we one by one slipped to the land of nod and dreamt of the day.  

The excitement of the biking passing we moved on to more sad business of the week, the loss of a friend, who if is reading this I wish the best of luck in Ghana. A celebratory breakfast at a small café hidden off the Plaza de Armas and then he was off. Followed swiftly by another true veteran of the group who left early in the morning, slipping out into the sunrise like a shadowy spy, she moved onto Brazil. For her departure though we had a small meal out where I tried two new meals. A small Peruvian dish similar to curry in appearance but not in taste. A much thicker sauce made of nuts, egg and cream served with chicken rice and a hardboiled egg. To go with the chicken we all ordered the dish of the town, the roasted Guinea pig.  Each taking a piece we all sniffed and inspected it cautiously until taking a bite of the count of three. The meat was tasty, similar in taste to beef or pork ribs, yielding a surprising amount of meat from such a small animal was a big surprise and I would happily eat it again.

The second week of this trip has definitely been interesting, and I hope to put some pictures up soon, I keep forgetting my camera you see, but much love to all and hopefully speak to you soon.

xxx