Tambopata River, Puerto Maldonado, Peru – Altitude: 256 metres

Delbert McClintock: “There ain’t no spiders here.”
Collins:”Look! There’s a giant spider web over there in the corner.”
Delbert McClintock: “Well yes, a spider web would reveal an arachnid presence.”

ARACHNOPHOBIA, 1990 – Delbert McClintock (John Goodman)

The 10am Aero Continente flight to Puerto Maldonado for the Cusco Crew went ahead as planned, despite the seat allocation on the plane being a case of Rafferty’s Rules. Just sit wherever you want! It seemed the seat allocations on your boarding pass meant as much to Aero Continente as my Spanish did to the Cusco locals. Just a mere thirty minute flight from Cusco to Puerto Maldonado. It was difficult to imagine the difference in both terrain and temperature we would experience when arriving. Puerto Maldonado is situated in the south east of Peru, and lies in the thick of jungle at the very foot of the Andes, and on the rim of the Amazon basin; the Tambopata River to be precise. Where Cusco sits at a lofty 3400 metre in altitude, Puerto Maldonado sits at a much more comfortable 256 metres above sea level. Plenty of oxygen there! Excellent we thought, until we set foot off the plane. The heat hit you like a blast from Hell itself. Sure you could breathe for a while, but you soon forgot about your new source of enriched air when walking across the tarmac to the terminal. Searing 40 degree heat, sweating like a Pisac pig and we were back in whinge mode; looking to don our shorts, sun-screen and mosquito repellent. Peru a country of opposite extremes! Young Mountain, Old Mountain! No oxygen, cool temperatures! Lots of oxygen, frickin’ hot! And it would get worse when approaching the jungle, as it was here that we would experience 95% humidity.

After meeting our jungle guides, Mateo (Teo) and Freddy we had a quick snack and water stop before journeying for twenty minutes on a winding red-dirt road, through a village, to the banks of the Tambopata River. At the river’s edge our motorised canoe awaited us, as did our three and a half hour journey up river to our jungle lodge. Margaret and I boarded the canoe first and sat at the back exchanging quick hellos with our navigator and the lodge kitchen-hands. The latter included a short, barrel-chested local man whose name I didn’t get, and a pleasant woman, Linda, in her early forties complete with 3-year-old son. Enter Carlos. Well Juan Carlos actually, as I soon discovered when Dany our tour leader boarded the canoe and Carlos eyes lit up with a welcoming “AMIGGGGOOOOHHH!” and Dany replied “Ahh, its Juan Carlos! Comestas?” The exchange was very cute, and Carlos quickly endeared himself to the entire group. I must admit though, I was a little confused over the pronunciation of Carlos’ name. When Dany pronounced his name, it sounded more like “Young Carlo”. To add to the confusion, his mother pronounces his name in Italian, “Gian Carlo”, and his father pronounces the Spanish. Nonetheless, I will remember him as “Young Carlos”. Margaret and I gave the little guy one of our souvenir koalas that we had anxiously been waiting to give to a native South American. Carlos was the first recipient.

Young Carlos and Linda

The journey up river was a pleasant one. The soft breeze blowing over the Tambopata took the edge off the stifling heat we had experienced when alighting the plane. We were all eagerly anticipating spotting our first sign of Amazonian wild-life, but the journey revealed little in this regard. I and others had the camera and binoculars held with much anticipation. The river actually turned out to be quite a busy little route: a few other tourist boats, but for the most part motorised canoes bursting at the gunwales with locals and/ or bananas. There were a great number of banana plantations on both sides of the river, and so any wildlife we were expecting to see would no doubt have fled on hearing the whine of a canoes motor. We were all expecting to see a capybara or two; the worlds largest rodent and apparently akin to a rat the size of a pig. The animal was purportedly meant to be seen frequently drinking at the river’s edge. But, we were totally denied. Capybaras there were none.

After a few rations of rice and chicken for our lunch, the canoe arrived at a checkpoint three hours into the journey. Here we signed into the Tambopata National Park, although in reality we had only entered the buffer zone of the park. Thirty minutes later and our canoe had been moored at the shore of our lodge. The lodge contained several wooden cabins and a large common area and kitchen. The cabins were complete with cold showers and mosquito-net equipped beds. Everything you needed to combat the two biggest buggers of the jungle, the humidity and the mosquito! It wasn’t long after making our way up the clay-baked embankment and into the jungle verge, where our lodge was located, that the humidity hit. Once we were allocated our cabins, it was a case of dealing with the curses of the jungle. I had bought a long-sleeved cotton drill shirt in Cusco, in readiness for the mosquito-riddled jungle, but the humidity was far too high for me to even consider wearing this. So, it was only to be a short sleeved shirt and any exposed skin was doused in 30% Deet. Margaret was playing devils advocate as she normally does with mosquitoes (because the feckers love her so), so she donned a long-sleeved shirt, and the repellent went on the shirt as well as her face and hands. Deet is a marvellous repellent. It not only prevents mossies from biting you, but it also eats through plastic and renders your skin the texture of a caiman with a bad case of hives. Glenn reacted quite badly after applying repellent to his face and consequently turned the brighter shade of a denuded Peruvian frog. In fact, Glenn didn’t have much success with his mosquito combat strategy. He also had to stop taking his anti-malarial tablets – Mefloquin after it surprisingly didn’t agree with his tummy.

This brings me to the subject of Malaria. The Amazon region extending from Brazil, to Peru and Ecuador is a region endemic to Malaria. It’s well documented that the mosquito carries the parasite that is Malaria. However the mosquitoes that bite during dusk, dawn and at night are the ones likely to be carrying it. Those mosquitoes that are obliging enough to drop in on you for a blood-donation during the day are only likely to carry Dengue Fever; of which there is no prevention. That’s another story. All is not as sinister as it seems for the Cusco Crew though given the Tambopata River is on the fringe of the Amazon Basin, and so is considered to be a low-risk Malaria area by locals. However, it would appear depending on which country you were from, what doctor you had, and what side of the bed that they awoke on, determined whether or not you in fact needed to take anti-malarial medication. While most in our group were taking them, some had been informed by their GP that it was completely unnecessary. Something to think about as I popped my third Doxy tablet of a two month supply. Margaret on the other hand was about the only one in the group that had braved the big-daddy of all the available anti-malarial medication: Larium. It was difficult to determine whether Margaret was actually affected by the consumption of the drug. The following gives a bit of an insight into the anti-malarial medication available.

ANTI-MALARIAL MEDICATION TRIVIA

Mefloquin

• Dosage: Daily
• Side effects: Occasional intestinal twist and bowel warp.
• Efficacy: Not 100%, but probably more effective than Doxy.

Doxycycline (aka Doxy)

• Dosage: Daily
• Side effects: Increases your sensitivity to the sun. Drug of choice for fair-skinned, ginger-haired people.
• Efficacy: Not 100% – But if you get enough sun, a mosquito won’t even look at you.

Larium

• Dosage: Weekly
• Side effects: Transforms you into a somnambulistic paranoid-schizophrenic, unless of course you already happen to be one, i.e. Norman Bates with a bad dream.
• Efficacy: Almost 100%, the H-bomb of anti-malarial medication; i.e. very effective, as the patient will invariably experience enough night trauma to frighten not only mosquitoes but every living thing capable of being bitten by a mosquito within a radius of 50 metres.

Okay so we’re perspiring like proverbial pigs, and lathered in Deet. Out we venture for a short tour of a local farm and orchard. If there was to be any test of our mosquito armour this was it, for dusk was upon us. Mateo and Freddy gave us the run down on some of the local plants which we learned are used today in western medicine. One such plant called Cat’s Claw is used in the treatment of cancer and HIV; and another Dragon’s Blood, aptly named for its viscous red sap, is used in the production of treatments for tuberculosis and bone cancer. It was somewhere in this jungle classroom that I was bitten twice through my shirt by mosquitoes. Feckers! I prayed that my less than 100 percent effective anti-malarial medication would not live up to its disclaimer. Margaret was not bitten at all. A minor miracle in the jungle!

That evening after dinner, Juan Carlos, introduced me to one of the older residents of the lodge. Miss Cornelia her name was. She proved to be a bit uncommunicative and had a real hair problem. The tarantula the size of my hand, and legs as big as fingers, had taken up lodgings in the corner of the kitchen, where she guarded her nest. Way cool I thought. Margaret wasn’t as nearly impressed as I. The massive hairy beast would be absent during the day (no doubt skulking in our cabin) and without fail would return to her corner at 7 every night. That’s the tarantula. Not Margaret!

We gained some respite from the mosquitoes and the humidity by venturing back to the canoe for a spot of caiman spot-lighting. A caiman is a South-American alligator, and there are a number of types in the Tambopata region. There was the Black Caiman, which can grow up to 8 metres in length, the White Caiman, and the Speckled Caiman. The speckled caiman is a relatively small crocodilian at a maximum length of only 2 – 3 metres. The caiman in general is a very placid alligator. Nothing at all like the notorious Saltwater croc that inhabit the estuaries and rivers of remote Australia. A large black caiman would be unlikely to bother a swimmer unless provoked. We were fortunate enough to see two caiman that evening. They were relatively easy to spot, as their eyes would light up like a pair of LEDs when any light was cast in their general direction. On attempted closer inspections of the caiman, they proved to be quite small speckled specimens. I say attempted, because the blighters disappeared after Gerhard, another older German-Australian on our tour would let go with a persistent-phlegm-packed cough. The evening finished with me conducting the Fecker Inspection*. After a relieving cold shower, and rigging the mosquito netting, Margaret and I were soon in bed, drowning in our own sweat.

* A FECKER INSPECTION involves me running around the room, staring at every nook and cranny for minutes at a time to ensure there are no mossies, spiders or any other 6 or 8 legged feckers about. Thankfully there were none – that I could see. The Fecker Inspection would become my nightly routine for the remainder of our time in South America.

Up at 5:00am for a quick breakfast of papaya and unpleasant bread. Then into the jungle for everybody except Graham, who had become quite ill overnight with, you guessed it, a nasty tummy bug. Mateo and Freddy lead us on a 4-hour trek on a meandering trail through the jungle to a lake where we would have a go at piranha fishing. The trek was still interesting despite being a little disappointing due to the lack of wild-life we saw. But to be fair, if I was an animal, I would scarper if I smelt, let alone heard a hoard of twenty chatting primates marauding through the jungle. We did see a number of birds, but it was a case of hearing them more than seeing them. We mostly saw butterflies and bizarre looking insects. The closest we came to seeing a mammal was spotting a set of tapir tracks. The tapir is South America’s answer to the European wild boar – the key differentiating feature being that the tapir has a hair-lip and so does not welcome onlookers. Perhaps the most entertaining part of the hike was walking precariously along the busy “leaf-cutter” highway. The path in parts was occupied by a veritable army of ants, each carrying the part of a leaf that they had chewed away. Hence, the name Leaf-cutter ant. Also entertaining were the true Army Ants, and only because they delivered a couple of bites to Gerhard, after he stood too close to the tree they inhabited.

After stalking a make-believe caiman (Helen Wright claims she saw it, but funnily enough no one else did), and traversing carefully across a few log bridges we made it to the lake and prepared ourselves for a spot of piranha fishing. There were three rowboats available for twenty of us. Two of the boats were sea-worthy, which could be a problem given we were on a lake. The last boat, the largest, was not worthy of anything but a good fire. Of course that was the boat that Margaret and I ended up boarding, along with ten other lucky travellers. As Mateo edged our boat out into the water, there was a mad flurry of plastic bags – makeshift camera protection – as we saw that our backsides were no more than one inch from the surface of the water. For some reason unknown to me, we all feared for our cameras more than for our own wellbeing; for a minute at least. Sure, we were only sinking into a lake that was teeming with piranha. Mateo had tried to lessen our fear of piranha by indulging us with a few facts. Apparently only the less vicious yellow-bellied piranha inhabited these waters. Its red-bellied cousin, who had a more voracious appetite wasn’t to be found here. Thank God for that! In truth though, the piranha doesn’t deserve the aggressive reputation Hollywood has given it. It will only go for you if you had an open sore. Like, for example, if you pricked your finger on a fishhook and then your boat happened to sink. Plausible enough, I thought as the water swept into the bottom of our boat at an alarming rate. Mateo, our guide and navigator, was unfazed. In fact according to Mateo it was quite safe to swim in the lake. According to Dany, however, it was possible to swim in the lake, but it was not a pastime he recommended. Not for the piranha, but for the anaconda. The anaconda, an extremely large aquatic snake; a constrictor; that inhabits the tributaries of the Amazon basin, and is perfectly capable of ingesting a cow at one sitting. No swimming Mateo, por favor.

As you might imagine, it took a while, but our minds wandered from flesh-eating fish, man-swallowing snakes and our sinking boat, as Mateo handed some makeshift fishing rods and bait to us budding piranha pescadores (Spanish for Fisher-person). We were soon fishing. After a surprisingly short time, The Incredible Horst landed a piranha; and a red-bellied one at that. The people on our boat roared in excitement at landing one so early on. This was soon followed by other roars from across the lake as one of our other boats was also successful. Meanwhile, Margaret and I had no success. We seemed to be just feeding the fish with large chunks of beef-steak. No sooner did we bait the hook and castaway when we’d pull up our line to find our hook devoid of lure. It seemed my zero percent fishing record, held for 32 years, was at no risk of being broken. Towards the end of our fishing foray, Michelle, who was also in our boat landed a yellow-bellied blighter. After that, the bites stopped. The piranhas had obviously had a belly full of beef. With the cessation of biting our minds reverted to more pressing dilemmas like the scorching sun and the implications of our sinking boat. Out came the bailer. A tin tea-mug. Dwelling on the potential demise of our boat quickly gave rise to some vociferous complaints and protests from our boat crew. Mateo took the hint and took us in to shore. Relief! After a photo-shoot of the two Pescadores with their catches we returned back to the lodge. Only two and a half hours this time. In time for a lunch of chicken and rice cooked in banana leaves. The afternoon was ours, so while a few relaxed, I wandered down to the shore to see if I could spot any wildlife. I saw one caiman and many tracks from the elusive capybara, and this, only after sinking almost knee dip into mud at the river’s edge.

As the sun sank, casting shadows over the river and putting a dent in the strong Peruvian sun, someone mentioned the word “Football”. And so, Michael, Richard, Glenn, Joanne, Mateo, Freddy and Freddy boarded the canoe and crossed to the opposing riverbank where a nice sandy beach awaited our game. By the way, there is no typo above. Another lodge-hand appeared from nowhere at the promise of a game of football, and his name too was Freddy. It was the Peruvians and Jo versus the Rest of Us. It was tough going as the humidity was a killer. I almost avenged the bashing of Margaret’s nose from the previous day, by letting a ball fly at the opposing keeper. It was Jo and narrowly missed taking off her nose complete with head. OOPS! Despite Mateo and the two Freddy’s showing great touch on the ball and having the home ground advantage, the Rest of Us ended up winning by a golden goal. At four goals a piece, Michael secured the match winning goal. The crowd went wild. One of the Freddys, in his disgust at the result braved anaconda, caiman and piranha and swam back across the river. Well, actually we were sweating so profusely a swim seemed like a great idea. Curiously our team was comprised of entirely Lima Lightweights so not surprisingly the cold shower was chosen instead. It was heaven.

That evening, after dinner, and a quick Spanish lesson from John Carlos it was time to go tarantula hunting in the jungle. Low and behold, we saw two nests, and one tarantula. It was kind of novel, seeing some wildlife that you had actually sought out. Granted the tarantula we saw was not as large as Miss Cornelia, but it was still exciting to watch Mateo taunt the hairy arachnid from its lair. Our spider hunt concluded with Mateo requesting all of us to shut our gobs for ten minutes and extinguish our torches. This was very cool, for within a couple of minutes of us following Mateo’s request the jungle came alive with the noises of the night. Perhaps the most prominent sound was that of the Amazonian Bamboo rat, which gave a bizarre but rather sonorous grunt. Not quite as loud as Gerhard’s snoring apparently. The evening concluded with us spotting a huge tree frog, and finally on performing a Fecker Inspection, we discovered a smaller tree frog in our shower. It was soon removed, without the slightest thought of a blender.

Tarantula, Amazon Basin

Amazonian Tree Frog

The following day, we left the lodge at 8am and ventured back down the river towards Puerto Maldonado. It was a rather poignant farewell saying cheerio to John Carlos, as he had proven to be quite the entertainer. Indeed Juan Carlos and Miss Cornelia were the highlights of our Tambopata experience. Mateo gave us a quick tour of the local market. Some of the plants that were on sale here we had seen in the jungle, like the Cat’s Claw and Dragon’s Blood. Gerhard whose cough was still causing him and Glenn, his room-mate problems, decided to knock back a local remedy. It consisted of honey and some sort of opossum extract. I don’t think it helped much. The remainder of the group braved their well being on some sugar coated Brazil nuts.

To the airport, where Margaret began to have some chronic tummy problems, resulting in a few visits to the loo. While I felt fine, it didn’t augur well for Margaret, as in less than one hour we would be arriving back in Cusco and so be reacquainting ourselves with the ridiculous altitude. Upon arriving in Cusco, it was also time to farewell some people from our tour. Richard & Michelle and Nicola were carrying on to Lima. So three of the original Lima Lightweights were now gone. The Cusco Crew arrived on time as expected. That evening was a quiet one for Margaret and I. We consulted the Diarrhoea Instruction Manual once again and then decided a course of antibiotics and “Gastrostop” was probably the safest strategy at this stage. Gastrostop! There’s a name and the chemo-equivalent to a butt-plug; quite handy when you have a long bus journey and are on the run so-to-speak. As it turned out we did have a long bus journey ahead of us the following day. Seven hours to Puno, on the verge of Lake Titicaca. I pondered this as I packed both of our rucksacks, now jam-packed with Peruvian souvenirs and, like Margaret’s stomach, threatening to explode.

Sacred Valley of the Incas, Peru – Altitude: 2,800 metres

“You can live on it – but it tastes like shit!”

CROCODILE DUNDEE, 1986 – Mick Dundee (Paul Hogan)

The following day we were introduced to yet another Tucan tour guide. No, Dany had not left us, he was busy making arrangements for our travel to the Amazon basin the following day. Enter Pepe! Pepe, a Cusco local, was not new to the Hardcore Hoard. He had accompanied them on the Inca Trail hike and was now our guide to the Sacred Valley of the Incas, a tour that would take us to the Inca ruins of Pisac and its colourful market and then to the impressive Inca ruins of Ollantaytambo. Our excursion to the Sacred Valley was eagerly awaited as it also meant we would be dropping below the oxygen threshold of 3,000 metres, and so gain some respite from the rarefied air of Cusco. As we boarded the bus, I soon realised that this was our first official outing as one group. The Lima Lightweights had officially merged with the Hardcore Hoard. And so it was. One group we were, and the Cusco Crew we became. As we journeyed to the Sacred Valley, we were informed that after today three of the Hardcore Hoard were actually finishing their tour. Ha, Doug and Brian were flying back to Lima the following day. So that had reduced the size of the Cusco Crew to eighteen people.

After about an hour and a half we arrived at a lookout point or mirador as is the term in Spanish, which provided great views into the Sacred Valley below. As is usual with any tourist haunt in Peru, the viewpoint was crowded with Peruvian women and children selling their wares. Rugs, Inca vs Spaniard chess sets, llama and alpaca woollens were among the many items. I offended a young Peruvian girl, when she thought I had taken a photo of her. She demanded her obligatory one Soles, but with my limited Spanish I could not get through to her that I was only lining up the shot, and had in fact not taken one. She gave me a filthy look nonetheless, and I gave into guilt later by taking a photo of another young girl in traditional dress with Margaret.

Afterwards, the bus meandered down into the valley itself and through the market town of Pisac. The market was to be later though, as the bus passed beyond the town through to another valley and then commenced the short climb to the site of the Pisac ruins. These ruins were extremely interesting. A goat track traversed the slope of the valley’s hills, winding through a crack in the hillside and eventually to the site of the Inti Huatani, The Sun Temple. The views of the Inca terraces were excellent. The Incas were highly intelligent and knew how to manage the land well. The terraces were constructed in a series of concave and convex shapes, so as to make the most of the land and the available sunlight for their crops. The Inti Huatani was quite impressive, a large sundial amidst the ruined walls of a temple. Some of the ruins on

On the trail to the ruins of Pisac

the hillside actually predated the Inca period of the 1400s. The sundial was quite a time piece, but a little impractical to wear on your wrist I pondered, after discovering on the return trip to the bus that my watch had fallen off at some point. It wasn’t expensive. It was just a simple band with a digital clock on it. It was annoying all the same, and would be the first of many things I would lose.

* LOST ITEM NO 1: One wristwatch

After our excursion to the Pisac ruin, we ventured back into Pisac town and to the market. This was very interesting, if not for the colour and character alone. Margaret and I had it in our heads that we had to buy something traditionally Peruvian from this market, and soon we embarked on buying a rug. We must have walked for ages, wandering past all the stalls, passing the food market complete with fly adorned poultry and fish awaiting purchase in the early afternoon sun. We soon spied a nice looking rug in one stall, and so the haggling began. “CUANTO CUESTA?” we enquired of the woman on the stall. 120 Soles was the reply. Having taken some haggling advice from Rudy our Lima tour guide we halved it straight away.

Gullible Gringo: “Sesenta (60) Soles” I stated. She laughed.

Persistent Peruvian: “NO! NO!” you dumb gringo she probably thought. “CIEN (100) Soles!”

It had come down at least, but still too expensive.

Gullible Gringo: “Setenta (70) Soles”, I parried.

Persistent Peruvian: “NOVENTA (90) Soles!” she came back with.

Almost there now!

Gullible Gringo: “Ochenta (80) Soles”, I said, with quite some conviction I might add.

Persistent Peruvian: “OCHENTA Y CINQO (85)”, came the stiff reply.

Gullible Gringo: “Ochenta!!!!”, I demanded.

Persistent Peruvian: “OCHENTA Y CINQO!!!”

Gullible Gringo: “No Ochenta!!!”

Persistent Peruvian: “OCHENTA Y CINQO por favor!!!”

Gullible Gringo: “Ochenta!!!!”

Persistent Peruvian: “Okay OCHENTA Y DOS (82)!!!!”

Gullible Gringo: “Ochenta!!!”

Persistent Peruvian: “OCHENTA Y DOS!!!!”

Gullible Gringo: “Ochenta!!!”

Persistent Peruvian: “OCHENTA Y DOS!!!!”

A stalemate it would seem, and so an agreed price. We paid 82 Soles, which equates to about 41 Australian dollars, 20 Euro, or 15 British Pounds. Or to be really precise, check out the following:

• 1 Aussie Dollar  – 2 Soles
• 1 US Dollar – 4 Soles
• 1 British Pound – 6 Soles

So by Western standards, Margaret and I had ourselves an absolute bargain! Although when walking away with our purchase, Margaret couldn’t help but think we’d been done. We probably were, but I was still chuffed. I’m clearly not cut out to be a true shopper.

A quick bite in a café on the Pisac square and we returned to our bus, dodging filthy, sweat-grimed pigs along the way. We made it and so continued our excursion to the Ollantaytambo Inca ruins a couple of hour’s drive away. These were equally impressive as Pisac, and perhaps gave you a better appreciation of the intricacy within the Inca masonry. Some of the stones, which are used in the Inca walls, weighed an enormous amount, and were crafted with such precision that they interlocked with one another virtually seamlessly. In fact on one wall adjacent to another Sun Temple* the stones were carved in such a way that the rays of the Summer and Winter Solstice sun would cast a perfect shadow every time. Equally impressive was the fact that the Incas would have lugged the stones from stone-quarries miles away from the site.

* It would seem the Incas worshipped the sun just as much as the Brits do today. This was evidenced in a running bet between one of the Helen’s and Ian. The competition was to see who had the darkest suntan on arrival in Rio.

Margaret and I were pleasantly surprised when ascending the stairs of the ruin to bump into two of our friends from our previous Patagonia trip; Sharni and Sarah. We had last seen them in Santiago, Chile. Our day’s outing as the Cusco Crew was finished and after another 2-hour drive we returned to Cusco for an anxiously awaited meal. It was funny, despite the group officially being the Cusco Crew, the table arrangement at the Maconda restaurant was such that we were still split into the Lima Lightweights and Hardcore Hoard.

Dinner was nice – for me anyway. Margaret and I both ate alpaca. Mine was a tasty Alpaca Mignon. Margaret’s not so good. Alpaca al vino proved to be pretty disgusting. Still, it was another exotic animal to add to our “Been there, ate that!” list. In fact here is a story in itself. While it is fine to eat alpaca, it is not necessarily okay in Peru to make a meal of other members of the llama family. While, it is possible to partake in a meal of llama, the feedback I had heard from Dany was that it was okay to eat, but probably wouldn’t taste very nice. I immediately thought of that memorable line from Crocodile Dundee. “You can live on it, but it tastes like shit!” So the llama is edible but not nearly as delectable as alpaca. What of the vicuña! Well, this is a bit more of a sensitive issue. For one thing, the animal appears on the Peruvian coat of arms, so it would be considered extremely offensive and therefore illegal to make a snack of the beast. I had learnt this particular fact from Rudy, during our day tour in Lima. Rudy had also carefully made the point that it seemed totally incongruous to him why a nation would indulge itself on the flesh of the very animal that is promoted as its national symbol. A sore point in the case of myself being Australian, as the kangaroo and emu, the national coat of arms, appear on menus in many restaurants in Australia and around the world. Another reason for not eating the vicuña is that the animal is much smaller in numbers. Unlike the ubiquitous alpaca and llama the vicuña is a much rarer sight in Peru. Why is it much smaller in numbers? I’m not quite sure, but apparently it has nothing to do with the appetite of the Peruvian people. The final beast in the llama family is the guanaco. The guanaco however, being native to Patagonia, (southern Chile and Argentina) is a bit exotic for Peru, so it remains questionable as to whether this animal has ever ended up on a Peruvian dinner table.

The evening concluded for Margaret and myself after having a quick drink with Sharni and Sarah at one of the two Irish pubs in Cusco, Flaherty’s. It was not a big night for us, as the following day involved an early morning’s flight to Puerto Maldonado, where we were to experience a taste of the Amazonian jungle.

Cusco, Peru, Altitude: 3,400 metres

“…work up to the hills top, muscles grow.

You can best believe me

He’s a macho man…”

MACHO MAN – The Village People

Our Aero Continente flight left Lima on time at 11am. We bade farewell to Rudy who graciously escorted us to the airport, for fear we would go back for more Frog Juice. The flight went without incident and after only an hour we arrived in beautiful Cusco. Cusco lies at the heart of the Peruvian Andes and was the former stronghold of the Inca Empire, established by the 9^th Inca King, Pachaqutek. I say former stronghold, as the Incas were eventually conquered and pillaged by the Spanish colonialists during the seventeenth century.

The impact of Cusco is almost instantaneous on arriving at the airport, particularly if you’ve flown from somewhere outside the Andes. Cusco is not the highest city in the world, but is still nestled in an Andean valley, which boasts a whopping altitude of 3,400 metres (10,200 feet). According to some of our reading material on Cusco, breathing can become a problem after 3,000 metres as there just isn’t enough oxygen to go around. Our lungs were literally bracing themselves when we ventured into the baggage hall, and we soon felt it when we had to lug our packs across the car-park to our waiting bus and new Tucan guide, Giovanna.

Panting profusely and a dull throb already lodged in my temple, we were soon getting stuck into the coca tea in the courtyard of the Cusco Plaza II hotel. Coca tea! Now there’s something different. Coca tea surprisingly enough is made from coca leaves; the same leaf from which cocaine is extracted and the same leaf that is still used in flavouring Coca Cola. The anaesthetic property of coca was not lost on the Inca civilisation. The chewing of coca was quite prevalent in order to help them cope with the altitude and getting through a hard day’s work. We were also told the Incas were born with larger than average lungs, so by my reckoning they should not have had a problem with the altitude. So why did they chew coca then? I reckon they just loved a chew, as we gringos would a good pint (or half in my case). Apparently, chewing enough of the leaves can suppress your appetite and stimulate your breathing. I had a couple of cups of the tea, which for the record does not infuse cocaine, but still helps with the respiration. But once I associated the taste with freshly cut lawn clippings the novelty quickly wore off. Grass and water just isn’t my thing! It’s almost as bad as drinking leaves and water. It is for this same reason that I have spurned my English roots and don’t drink ordinary tea either.

Margaret and I made the mistake of doing a little too much that afternoon. First up, Giovanna lead us on a tour of the old city, which revealed that Cusco was still built firmly on its Inca heritage. Literally in fact given many of Cusco’s dwellings are built on original Inca stone. In one particular alley way, Giovanna had us all scrutinizing the Inca stonework of a series of buildings in order to try and discern the apparently ubiquitous form of the puma. With some assistance and some pretty creative extrapolation, I did make out a puma shape in the masonry eventually. I must admit, I was never any good at identifying an image from a pattern. You know the ones. You stare at a colourful, apparently random pattern for a few minutes, and then the image is magically revealed. The Inca stone puma was just like this and I eventually found myself saying “Oh yeah, I can see it now”, so as not to disappoint the enthusiastic guide. According to local literature, the Inca’s were obsessed with the puma, and in fact the entire perimeter of this ancient Inca city resembles the shape of a puma.

After admiring the engineering prowess in the beautifully aligned Inca stonework it was time for lunch. Before arriving at the café though, we were given a taste of Peru’s very recent and rather sinister history. Terrorism! Peru is no stranger to this blight on the human race, and we watched with amazement as two khaki clad individuals, sporting balaclavas and some anti-government placards paraded down the cobbled Cusco street – delivering their message through a wailing mega-phone. Giovanna didn’t take too much heed of them, but just mentioned briefly that although Peruvian terrorism had been curbed in recent times, there were still a few rogue elements. The most notorious Peruvian terror groups are the left-winged Shining Path (or Sendero Luminoso in Spanish), and the communist Tupac Amaru. It was the latter that was responsible for the seizing of the Japanese ambassador’s residence in 1996. According to our guide, during the reign of former President Alberto Fujimori both of these terrorist groups were rounded up and their leadership decimated. But, apparently there are still pockets of these groups operating on the fringes of Amazonian Peru.

Our eventful morning was punctuated by a welcome bite in Jack’s café. This was followed by a couple of hours of traipsing around Saqsayhuaman, (pronounced Sexy Woman) a magnificent Inca ruin which sits atop of one of the many hills overlooking Cusco and at an altitude of 3,500 metres. While I felt the altitude, I had this inexplicable urge to want to run, and climb up the many steps. I would learn latter from Glenn that this was due to my obsession with the film Forrest Gump. I managed to encourage Margaret to climb a few flights for a photo, but she soon gave up that lark, when I decided to climb a hill adorned with a statue of Christ overlooking the city. Margaret waited, while I climbed with a few others from the group. The lookout provided a magnificent panorama of the city, and it was here that I became acquainted with the expression “Photooooh!!! Amigooooh!!! You want to take photo Amigoooh!!” There was many a woman and child, complete with lamb who would happily let you take a picture for one Peruvian Soles at the minimum. I cheekily got two for one. I’m a haggler! We completed our city tour by visiting Cusco cathedral and searching for the acclaimed Last Supper painting. This painting was famous given the artist had decided to make his adaptation of the Last Supper typically Cusquenian. He did this by substituting one of the many loaves of bread on Christ’s dinner table for the guinea pig. Guinea pig is a revered animal* in the Andes and also quite a delicacy as well. Much to my dismay, I was unable to take photographs inside the cathedral, so I asked one of the many postcard selling kids, if they had a postcard of the Last Supper with the furry rodent. (In perfect Spanish I might add). Actually, the kids generally spoke English very well, and within minutes we had every Carlos, Dick and Jose coming to us with the postcard. Being the fantastic hagglers we were, we refused all offers. Two Soles for a postcard, we weren’t paying that. That’s scandalous.

* The reverence paid to the guinea pig is an inexplicable phenomenon in Peru. Rudy, our Lima Tour Guide had informed us that in some more traditional areas, the guinea pig is used almost as a divining rod. Not to find water though, but to detect illness. A Sharman (or Andean witch doctor) would rub a live guinea pig over a sick person, in order to determine which part of the body was afflicted. Assuming the patient hadn’t already died in a fit of tickles, the Sharman would proceed to kill the animal and then cut it open to examine its entrails. Apparently, the disease of the person would have found its way into the body of the furry rodent. On examining the guts of the guinea pig, the Sharman would be able to give a full diagnosis and treatment to his patient. Bizarre or what? We enquired of our tour leader later about seeing such a ceremony, but to our disappointment we didn’t have the time.

Dinner in the Inca Grill that evening was a bit meagre. Margaret had a major headache coming on, and we were both exhausted. It wasn’t long before we were in bed. We both had restless nights, although Margaret more than I. Margaret suffered greatly from the altitude change. Her headache had quickly developed into a migraine and the tummy was playing up as well. For me, I only had a mild headache, but my legs ached all night long. It felt as though I’d worn my dancing fool hat all day. Margaret was feeling bad enough to call upon our medical kit for the first time since arriving in South America. Well, the term Medical Kit is about as loose as your bowels are at altitude. For in fact it was a veritable mobile pharmacy. We had catered for just about everything. There was a plethora of painkillers, anti-histamines, antibiotics, bandages, and of course various treatments for all the possible maladies that may be inflicted upon your bowel. Anyway, this time, it was out with the Diamox – a tablet that helps in adjusting to altitude, and also out with the diarrhoea flowchart. Yes, we actually had been given a flowchart from our travel doctor in order that we could pinpoint exactly whether we had just bog-standard travellers diarrhoea, or something more exotic like Gardia or amoebic dysentery. It was a bit too early to determine exactly the cause of the problem. Perhaps if we had had a guinea pig instead of our flowchart we could have given a more accurate diagnosis.

Margaret’s only comfort that night came from the fact that tomorrow’s train journey to Machu Picchu would involve descending to an altitude of 2,100 metres.

This morning was an early start, for we had to catch the 7:30am train from Cusco station in order to make the 4 hour journey to Agua Calientes, a small market town which is situated at the bottom of the Machu Picchu valley. Enter Tucan Tour leader, Gabby. Gabby was to be our guide for Machu Picchu only. After a very light breakfast, Margaret and I (well mostly Margaret) unsteadily made our way to the transfer bus. While, Margaret’s migraine had waned somewhat, it was still hanging on like a finger-puppet wielding Peruvian. Thankfully it was only a short distance to the train station and we were soon boarded. Ah!!! One of the advantages of group travel!

The train journey was most enjoyable, and particularly during the beginning and final stages. The first 30 minutes of the train-ride required traversing one of the Cusco hills through a series of switchbacks. It offered tremendous views of the mist enshrouded city. After the initial climb, which was around 3,600 metres we began the descent. The scenery was pretty for the most part, and began to change about three hours in to more jungle like terrain. Apart from sleeping, we whiled away the time by playing cards. Jane proved to be a bit of a shark when it came to the game of Hearts. She whipped the collective butts of Graham, Horst and I. It cannot go without mentioning that Joanne lost her bottle on the train and Margaret copped the full brunt of it. On the nose! The bottle had worked its way loose from Joanne’s bag, which was perched precariously on the overhead luggage rack. It fell and gave Margaret a good whack on the “schnoz”. Because, quite frankly, a migraine and a temperamental tummy weren’t quite enough for poor old Margaret.

Eventually we approached Agua Calientes and the scenery provided a preview to what we would experience on Machu Picchu. Passing the starting points for the Inca Trail, we arrived in Agua Calientes, named for its thermal springs and situated at the bottom of a steep undulating valley. Our excitement was palpable and Margaret was extra excited as her headache had gone. The wonders of oxygen!

A bus ride from Agua Calientes up a winding pass had us at the entrance to Machu Picchu within twenty-five minutes. It was almost surreal. We had long been preparing ourselves for the view that we had seen on so many TV travel programs, and here we were about to experience it. High in anticipation as we were in seeing such a wonder of the world, it was an anti-climax when the vista appeared, for after a short stroll through the gates the famous Inca ruins of Machu Picchu almost unexpectedly appeared. Descending down the slopes and beautifully flanked by the towering Huayna Picchu, it was nonetheless a grand sight to behold. A few minutes after this I was a little disappointed to learn that those who wanted to climb Huanya Picchu would only be able to take part in thirty minutes of the two hour guided tour. Being the climbing type (aka Mr Gump), I opted for the climb, while Margaret decided to take the rest of the tour. It was a tough decision as both were extremely worth while and the Tucan brochure had indicated we would have time to do both and then time to relax in the springs in Agua Calientes.

The Inca Ruins of Machu Picchu

For what part of the guided tour I did participate in, it proved very interesting. Gabby informed us that Machu Picchu was thought to be the lost city of the Incas. Machu Picchu actually means Old Mountain and Huanya Picchu is Young Mountain. Machu’s summit stands at 2,400 metres while Huanya is at 2,700 metres, which meant that I was in for a 600 metre steep climb. Sure enough thirty minutes was up and three of us, Horst, his son Michael, and myself were soon weaving our way through alleyways of Inca stone-work and finally to the foot of Huayna Picchu itself.

Gabby had stated that it should take about half an hour to climb Huanya Picchu, so I fully intended to cover the distance in that time. At the back of my mind I thought she wanted to prove that we gringos were wimps if we didn’t make it in the half hour, she being a hardened, big-lunged local and all. So up we went. After the going became very tough, the three of us soon split up to take the climb at our own pace. At one stage I thought that I would be happy just to make it to the top, let alone in thirty minutes. Two thirds of the way up and I’m sweating like a Pisac pig and panting like I was negotiating a Cusco pavement. The last stretch was hand-over-hand, a final frantic scramble up some smooth boulders, but I made it. The view from the top was quite stunning, and yet I was fully unprepared for what other revelations were to follow.

My official time of ascent was thirty-one minutes. Alas, a lass I would be in Gabby’s books. After ten minutes of sitting down regaining my composure and taking in the magnificent views of the valleys and the sloping Inca ruins of Machu Picchu, I was greeted with a “Hellooo!” I turned to see Horst, casually scaling a boulder to my right. “That was quite hord!” he said in his thick Berlin accent. It would seem 41 years of living in Australia had not taken its toll on Horst, nor in fact had the climb. I was literally gob-smacked by Horst’s sudden and relaxed appearance, for the man is 71 years of age. His official time was forty-one minutes. His son Michael, about 30 years his junior, arrived on the summit after one hour. Perhaps Horst’s youth lies in his name, for he goes by the acronym of HHHB. Horst, Heinrich, Hermann Bardorf or more appropriately I think; Triple HHHardcore Bastard! My wonder at Horst’s amazing feat was soon doused when an American tourist dropped his trousers for his mandatory Huayna Picchu arse shot. One for his mom he said. I was certainly taken aback by this and I fear Horst was even more profoundly affected. I would say based on behaviour we saw later on tour that this not so Old Man was forever changed by his climb to the summit of Young Mountain. For young Horst, climbing Huanya Picchu was like an epiphany, akin to kissing the Blarney Stone in Ireland. No gift of the gab was imparted here though, but a big dollop of mojo. Lookout ladies, the Incredible Horst had arrived!

Stephen atop Huanya Picchu

Our day in Machu Picchu finished far too quickly and so we began descending the winding mountain pass towards Agua Calientes. I found it odd that at every turn a young Peruvian lad would be there, yelling at the top of his lungs. “ADIOOOOOSSSSS!!!! GOOOOOODBBYYYYEEEEE!!!!” After this happened a few times, I thought, these Peruvian kids all looked the same. In fact, I’m a bit slow (well you saw my time) and as it turned out it happened to be the same kid. He would go clambering down the mountain in time to meet the bus at every turn. Naturally as with all Peruvian entertainers he boarded the bus in Agua Calientes requesting his fee. I was in the far back corner of the bus, and so could not depart with the traditional two Soles.

Cometh the hour! Cometh the man! No, not our macho Horst, nor our arse wielding Yankee friend, but our new and final Tucan Tour Leader. Enter Dany Torres! The Lima Lightweights were introduced to Dany in a restaurant in Agua Calientes, before we boarded the train back to Cusco. Dany, a short, lean, well-groomed, sensible looking Peruvian chap. As with many things on this trip, looks would prove to be deceiving. Much to our approval we reduced the length of the train trip to two hours, by alighting at Ollantaytambo and then catching a bus the remainder of the journey to Cusco. It was on the train that we met some members of the Hardcore Hoard. For the record, the Hardcore Hoard comprised the following people.

THE HARDCORE HOARD

• Helen Shelton – Nottingham, UK
• Helen Wright – London, UK
• Alan Chamings – Devonshire, UK
• Ian Chamings (Alan’s son) – Devonshire, UK
• Paul & Fiona Watters – Northern Ireland
• Christine – Norway
• Dan Wagner – Canada
• Gerhard Hoeller – Australia
• Ha* – South Korea
• Doug – USA
• Brian – USA

* Technically Ha was not a fully-fledged Hardcore Hoard member, as she unfortunately was confined to a Cusco hospital bed for most of the time her compatriots were doing the Inca Trail. After three days of oxygen and altitude sickness drugs she managed to salvage some part of her Cusco visit by taking the train journey to Machu Picchu. Margaret considered herself lucky after hearing this story.

Our day to Machu Picchu concluded with Margaret and I joining Dany and two of the Hardcore Hoard for dinner at the Blueberry Café, a rather funky looking diner on the main Cusco plaza. The two Hoarders who allowed us to share our meal with them were Alan and Brian. The meal proved quite tasty and it gave us an insight into our tour leader Dany and Alan. Alan we learned was going all the way to Rio with us, and was travelling with his son Ian. Apparently, Ian was resting up after their hard 4 days on the Inca Trail. Alan was revelling in the fact that his stamina exceeded that of his son, although did express some concern over having raised a wuss. Dany was in raptures after hearing this, so much so that his whole body quaked in laughter. On leaving the café for our beds I pondered on the day past. 71-year-old Horst climbs Young Mountain ahead of his son Michael, and 50-something Alan demonstrates that he’s tougher than his son Ian. It seemed the older generation on this tour was out to teach us younger folk a thing or two. Mature, Machu Men indeed! This augured for interesting times ahead.

Lima, Peru Altitude: 130 metres

“It’s not easy bein’ green. It seems you blend in with so many other ordinary things…”

IT’S NOT EASY BEING GREEN – Kermit the Frog

To say we were anxious upon arriving in Lima would be an understatement. We had heard countless stories of the poverty and consequent crime rate, let alone the political instability that had dogged the country for years. At the time we booked our flight from Santiago to Lima, our travel agent had informed us that the only flight available arrived in Lima for around 11pm. We had accepted this on face value. But as Margaret and I began to do more research, we became a little more apprehensive. The Australian Department of Foreign Affairs and Trade (DFAT) had issued countless warnings on their web-site about Peru and specifically Lima. Don’t go outside with your camera. Don’t wear watches. Never hail a cab from the street. Stay indoors after dark. Never walk alone. Okay, so Lima isn’t safe during the day, borders on extremely dicey in the evening and here we are Margaret and I arriving at about 11:30pm on a Saturday night. It was like all the petty thieves of Peru had swung some amazing deal with Lan Chile so as to have all flights containing bewildered gringos* to land at night; thereby maximising their opportunity to thieve and abscond as much as they could from unsuspecting tourists. Excellent! Bring it on I thought! It was late, I was tired, and I had had a frustrating time earlier in the day, involving some traveller’s cheques and an unhelpful Chilean. I was quite up for some Argie Bargie with some Peruvians really.

* GRINGO: The affectionate (or otherwise) term given to all non-Latinos. I thought it was reserved for Americans only, given the Mexicans first gave them the name after hearing shouts of “GREEN-GO!” “GREEN-GO!” from the US forces at the battle of the Alamo. But alas, it applies to ginger-haired Australians and Irish girlfriends as well.

Our reservations about arriving in Lima at night were tempered by the fact that we had a transfer to the Hotel Kamana in central Lima pre-arranged. This was subject to the tour representative, Enrique from Tucan Travel, being there to meet us of course. After clearing immigration (which was just a perfunctory glance at your passport), we strolled into arrivals looking for Enrique. Naturally, he wasn’t there. Ah, but I did manage to spot someone holding a sign for the Hotel Kamana. Thinking that perhaps he was our man, I asked this guy if he was Enrique. “No” he says, “Are you from Tucan?” After a tentative yes from myself he said he would ring Enrique for us.

A thousand scenarios running through my mind. Here’s this complete stranger, more than willing to help us contact Enrique. Are people usually this helpful in Peru? Is this coincidence? In a city of 12 million people was it plausible that this guy could just happen to know who Enrique is? Is he now ringing one of his comrades, who will in turn show up under the guise of Enrique? Would we soon be whisked away in a nefarious taxi and then be fleeced and left for dead in some shanty town? Well, apparently not as I live to tell this tale. In fact our fears were allayed after twenty minutes when a sheepish looking Peruvian arrived wearing a Tucan Travel jacket and carrying a little Tucan ping-pong paddle. Margaret gave him the “You should have been here you clown!” look.

After another fleeting thought that perhaps the real Enrique had been mugged for his Tucan paraphernalia and we were still to wind up in a ditch, we soon found our way into downtown Lima. However, not before driving through a large shanty town though, as central Lima is 16km from the airport. Traffic lights appeared to be a novelty to many of the drivers and an approach to any intersection was met with a barrage of horn-blasts from Enrique to let other motorists and pedestrians know that we were ploughing on through. It was quite interesting though, and we arrived at our destination the Hotel Kamana surprisingly in one piece.

The following day was Sunday and Mothers Day. We were up late and after much deliberation over personal security we ventured outside early afternoon; without the camera. After a quick walk around the block, past some unscrupulous moneychangers, we visited Plazas San Martin and the Plaza de Armas, which we learned later is now referred to as Plaza Mayor. The latter was filled with families on account of it being Mother’s Day and seeming perfectly safe we ventured back to the hotel for the camera. Even with camera in hand, Plaza Mayor presented no problems. After walking around for a while taking in the Government house and Mayor’s residence we visited Lima Cathedral, which by far dominates the Plaza. As luck would have it we were just in time for Mass. It was a bit difficult to pay attention given the service was in Spanish, but we were kept alert enough after an usher scolded us for putting our feet on the kneeler. There was no nodding off after that. Our Sunday was completed when we took in dinner at Café Haiti in Miraflores, the posh end of town. Miraflores was pretty cool. Quite lively! Across the road from the café, in a small amphitheatre there was quite a large gathering of couples, both young and old, dancing to Latino music. The occasion? We guessed Mother’s Day. Margaret and I attempted some dancing of our own in the Sun & Cuba bar (just around the corner from Café Haiti); but this resulted in stifled laughter coming from a group of locals in one corner of the room. So we left.

We were awoken early by a hoard of whistle blowing, striking teachers parading down the street past the hotel. Bloody teachers I thought and thereafter rolled over and went back to sleep. How little I knew though, for teachers would soon haunt us later in the tour. Nevertheless, we had risen by 11am in enough time to attend the official departure meeting for our cross-continent trip to Rio. Officially our tour with Tucan Travel started today. Enter our tour group and tour leader; Rudy. Well for the time being at least. We soon learned that from this initial group leaving Lima, only a handful of us would actually be going all the way to Rio. Tucan structure their tours as modules, so some would go as far as Cusco, some to Puno, and others would finish in La Paz. In fact our tour leader Rudy was only to be our guide while in Lima. We would actually have two more guides before meeting our official guide, Dany, and only then after our trip to Machu Picchu in two days time. At this point the group starting in Lima would then join forces with another Tucan tour, those hardcore adventurers who had undertaken the arduous 4-day Inca-trail trek. Confused? Well, we were confused initially too, and so to assist in explaining this, I shall now refer to the group leaving Lima; that’s our group; as the Lima Lightweights. This is on account of the fact that we were taking the train to Machu Picchu and not doing the 4 day trek; unlike the other group we would meet in a couple of days, of whom I shall refer to as the Hardcore Hoard. So, the Lima Lightweights we were, and this was comprised of a diverse bunch of people.

THE LIMA LIGHTWEIGHTS

• Graham Diment & Judy Foster – Sydney, Australia
• Horst Bardorf – Sydney, Australia
• Michael Bardorf (Horst’s son) – Melbourne, Australia
• Joanne Lugg – Melbourne, Australia
• Richard & Michelle – Perth, Australia
• Glenn Thompson – County Antrim, Northern Ireland
• Jane Hill – London, UK
• Nicola Berkeley – Surrey, UK
• Margaret Molloy County Mayo, Ireland
• Myself, Wollongong, Australia

After introductions, Rudy and the Lima Lightweights left the Hotel Kamana for a city tour. First up, we did a walking tour through Plaza San Martin and Plaza Mayor. Been there, done that, we thought. After absorbing a complete history of the buildings and some quirky facts – like why for instance a statue in the Plaza San Martin had been crowned with a llama instead of a flame and why a certain colonial building was now a porn-theatre – we ventured off the Plaza Mayor to the river Rimac which runs through the city.

On our way to the river, Rudy pointed out the biggest Wanka in Lima. No, it wasn’t an annoying person, it was actually a stone. The Wanka stone serves as a reminder to the Spanish Conquistadors that Lima in fact existed before they arrived and colonised the place. The Wanka is a large Inca stone, and apparently Lima used to be littered with them at the height of the Inca Empire. Rudy, with a wry grin, was quick to point out that Lima used to be full of Wankas. Please rest assured that it wasn’t just me that got great mileage out of this little piece of Lima history.

In fact Rudy certainly loved his expressions and swear words. I’ve never met anyone as keenly interested in all the slang and cuss words that are available in various languages. He was coming out with more Australian slang expressions than I would care to mention in a lifetime, let alone five minutes. For a moment I was worried that this poor Peruvian had developed some kind of variation of Tourette’s syndrome, which compelled him to fire off random expressions of Australian slang, instead of offensive expletives. I didn’t help his condition by giving him a few expressions that he had not yet documented in his little black book. I think “Dry as a dead dingoes donger!” was about entry number 410. I apologise in advance to the poor blighter that cops that little gem.

We arrived at the river Rimac, and were fairly unimpressed by the view. The river was awash with garbage and its northern banks were edged by a sprawling shantytown that stretched its way up the 600 metre high hill of San Cristobal. Admiring the flotsam and jetsam of the river Rimac in the heat of a scorching Peruvian sun, we quickly looked for respite and so headed for lunch at a café just a short hop from the celebrated Wanka stone. Lunch was great and I tried a Peruvian delicacy. No it wasn’t coke in your beer – as I would learn later; but in fact a seafood dish called Ceviche. It was basically raw seafood, including prawns, octopus and fish in a lime and chilli marinade. It tasted all right, but I thought the whole idea of a marinade was to enhance the flavour of the flesh you were about to cook. As you can see, I was being very careful with the old stomach from day one.

That afternoon is one that we certainly won’t forget. First we visited the bone-riddled catacombs of San Francisco Convent. Convent was an odd name given that it was never used to train nuns, but priests. Perhaps it was a ploy to attract more young lads to the priesthood. I’m off to the nunnery to become a priest! There’s a slogan! Afterwards we visited the Lima, Bull Ring. I should qualify that this is a proper bullring, where they have matadors and bulls and the like. Margaret had a chuckle when I had a go at being a Matador. Yes, sporting a lovely red carpet, I sparred with a Matador trainer. How’s that work? Not sure really, as I quickly discovered when I was gored by a set of makeshift horns held by the trainer. It was a bit bizarre really, the trainer looking more like he was performing some sort of Tai Chai tickling ritual only with a pair of bull’s horns.

Despite almost leaving our tour-guide Rudy behind, we eventually left the bullring and ventured up the treacherous route, via a shanty town to the top of Cerro San Cristobal. It was very very precarious indeed. The road was only narrow enough for one vehicle and traversed its way in a spiral to the summit. At one point you could peer over the edge, revealing sheer drops of hundreds of feet. We were repeatedly assured that we had a competent driver (curiously, a warning that we would hear increasingly frequently on our trip). We did make it to the summit, eventually, albeit dusk having taken hold. Given that Lima is covered in smog most of the year, and that it was dusk, we didn’t get a full appreciation for its geographical size. However, from the top of San Cristobal you could still discern the shanty town skirting its base and for what was such a small area, we were informed that it housed up to three million people. Unbelievable! Heading down San Cristobal was even more frightening than climbing it. The driver appeared to be in a hurry, which is really not what you want. He also seemed to have a death wish as well. Approaching the smallest dip in the road was a cue for the driver to absolutely floor it. Apparently he enjoyed the taste of his gut in his gob. Margaret and I didn’t and nor did Rudy. “MUCHO DESPACIO!!!” Rudy casually quipped at the driver in some sort of feeble attempt to express his dismay at the reckless nature of the driver. (Mucho Despacio means slow down in Spanish). This seemed more of a signal for the driver to speed up though. I would say that the only people who enjoyed that little jaunt down the side of San Cristobal, aside from the driver himself, would have been the local children happily playing chicken with the speeding bus.

Rudy certainly had the cure for our wracked nerves after that ride from Hell. After another short drive we alighted from the bus in a very poor part of town, and were ushered into this cramped little shop. The Frog Juice Shoppe! It is here that we experienced the making of Frog Juice. This proved a fantastic experience and one that is captured herein:

RECIPE FOR FROG JUICE

Ingredients:

• 1 live frog – quite swampy looking,
• Molasses,
• Honey,
• Soy Milk,
• Powder akin to corn flour,
• Amazonian jungle-herbs whose name escapes you, but that are allegedly a good health tonic,
• Amazonian jungle-weed whose name also escapes you and that is hailed as a mighty aphrodisiac.

Apparatus:

• 1 blender,
• 1 sharp, short-bladed knife – a scalpel is good,
• 1 strainer,
• 1 saucepan,
• 1 chopping board

Method:

• Place molasses, honey, soy milk, powder and Amazonian herbs in the blender.
• Pull frog fresh out of its bucket or whence it lives.
• Present it carefully to those around you (preferably gringos with a penchant for queasy), so as to sure no trickery.
• Place specimen neatly on chopping board.
• Tap frog on the back of the head with the end of your knife. This should stun your frog. Be sure to check that it is stunned. Don’t be fooled. Your frog will successfully be stunned if its legs are kicking at a more frantic pace than when you first removed it from its bucket.
• Be sure to check that your frog is stunned. Apparently a screaming frog brings bad luck, and you will need to start again if this happens… that is if you still have the stomach.
• Now make an incision down the back of the frog.
• Carefully remove the skin from the frog, and in the same deft movement remove its innards. Afterwards present your specimen to any interested onlookers. If this is all done correctly, your frog should now be a brighter shade of pink and still be kicking frantically. Don’t let this put you off though. This is a perfectly natural reaction from the frog at this stage. Let’s face it, you too would turn a brighter shade of crimson and be kicking wildly if you were being suspended naked in mid-air by a knife-wielding madman.
• Drop the frog casually into the blender. For extra effect you may like to crank up your showmanship here.
• After three more kicks from the frog then flick the “on” switch. You may wish to use the pulse option on your blender to start with. Alas, not all Peruvian blenders have such a feature. Blend mixture for five minutes or to taste.
• Pour contents through a strainer over a saucepan. If you’re experienced enough you can remove this step.
• Pour the contents of the saucepan into a glass.
• Drink it up.
• 1 glass of Frog Juice should feed about ten astonished gringos.
• 1 glass of Frog Juice will feed only one slightly insane Peruvian.

Gob-smacked, and shaken but not stirred, so-to-speak, we returned to the hotel. I felt for the poor frog, it certainly isn’t easy being green, but, and as this experience had proved it certainly wasn’t easy being a gringo either. Our poor taste buds! For the record the juice was okay, but the croutons were a little too much.

That evening was a much quieter affair. Another dinner in Miraflores, complete with Pisco Sours and birthday wishes for Joanne who had turned 27. We didn’t have a late one, as we had an early morning flight to Cusco, the ancient capital of the Inca Empire and our base to visit the magnificent Machu Picchu.