Faces of Peru

Thanks for the Underwear!

My favourite part of the Lares trek was handing bread, pencils, bouncy balls, and stickers to the children.

As we trekked through remote villages scattered across the barren landscape, children would run to meet us. Sometimes we could see tiny specks of colour running full tilt up steep inclines in the distance. These would inevitably disappear until we came around a bend to find a group of children patiently seated on the side of the path.

We would then make conversation and give them each a piece of bread. [Note: We did have reservations about creating a relationship of dependency on tourists. However, we quickly discovered that the children were as fascinated by us as we were by them and that the bread provided an easy means to a friendly interaction.]

Occasionally, an astute child would hide the bread in the folds of his clothing and rejoin the huddle, hand outstretched. One clever boy, bread in hand, actually sprinted ahead to wait for us among the next group of children. He received our knowing smiles in return for his efforts.

Rod always shouted a merry "Ola!" as we approached and the children always shouted back. One giggly group even sang for us and posed for a picture. As we prepared to continue our trek, Rod attempted to say, in Spanish, "Thanks for the photograph!"

Giggles followed, the children covering their mouths in a clumsy attempt to hide their glee. Our guide then explained that Rod had actually said, "Thanks for the underwear!"

It was then that I realized that children are children, no matter where they live. And underwear is underwear--it will always inevitably provide a source of great amusement.

You Expect Me to Carry What?!

Some of the most fascinating people of Peru are the llamas. I know full well that llamas are not people. However, I cannot help but think of these expressive creatures in human terms.

At the beginning of the Lares trek, I met the llamas who would carry our camping supplies on their backs. If they could talk, they would have bluntly stated that we were despicable, odious creatures who should darn well take our own supplies and shove them . . . well, you get the idea.

The looks they gave us! They didn't even try to conceal their disgust--or how put out they were by the fact that they had to hike instead of lying in front of a television set watching old episodes of Alf.

Now, a more paranoid person might start to think these sinister animals were talking . . . like elderly church ladies, they hovered together in a tight circle of gossip, casting disproving glances our way.

At first glance, you may observe (photo 1) a happy couple with some harmless llamas in the background. In reality, only a rope separated Rod and I from death by trampling. We were not calm and collected when this photograph was snapped: rather, we feared for our lives. Only moments later, the white llama realize that he could step over the rope, and he led a revolt.

Now, not all llamas are rabblerousers. In fact, at the top of Machu Picchu, I met one individual who appeared to be more than happy to pose with me (photo 2). A naive glance may lead to the conclusion that we were two kindred spirits appreciating the wondrous achievements of the Incas. However, this kind sir was merely tolerating my existence, recognizing the effort it would take to blot my kind from existence.

They're out there. And it's only a matter of time before they get off their lazy haunches and take over the world . . .

Peruvian Children

Tourists are a Fascinating Lot

I will soon write about the amazing Lares trek--our four-day journey to Machu Picchu that took us over mountain passes with a posse of llamas (indignant rabblerousers), horses, a guide, a porter, a cook, and a fellow trekker from the Australian army. I will soon write about the brilliant moment when, after watching our driver change a tire on a steep slope in the middle of nowhere, my dear husband stepped directly into an impressive pile of dog excrement and then into the van. I will soon write about the amazing children we encountered: descendants of the Incas who live quiet, peaceful lives on the mountain slopes, untainted by city life or tourists.

However, I cannot help but first write about tourists--some of the bizarre individuals we have encountered who are sometimes more foreign to us than the locals themselves.

I will begin with a middle-aged woman from Uruguay who was a member of our group touring the islands of Lake Titicaca. Whereas the majority of hikers wear khaki pants, hiking boots, bandanas, sunglasses, and hats to block out the sun, this woman wore riding pants, nylons, knee-high black boots, a suit jacket, and a most fashionable scarf. Her hair was perfectly arranged, and she had taken great care to apply her purple eyeshadow. (Keep in mind that I did not even bring deodorant on our overnight stay!)

Now, what is the most appropriate thing to do before an uphill hike at an altitude of 4,000-and-some metres? Normally I would suggest applying sunblock and drinking bottled water. This woman, however, believed that a cigarette would open up her airways; hence, neither Rod nor I were at all surprised when she had to be taken up the slope on a horse.

What made her even more fascinating (and I will admit that I took a liking to this peculiar woman) was her constant habit of touching the locals. She requested that women selling blankets and trinkets braid her hair. She reached out and stroked the cheeks of children even after being told that these were a shy, reserved people. She hugged and kissed and jumped upon every living being within her reach.

I was struck, too, by the differing attitudes of tourists. We spent one afternoon on a boat talking with Henrik and Marie, Norwegians with a passion for the poor. Henrik, a 23-year-old with plans to become a missionary upon procuring a wife, spoke of watching children search for scraps of food in a garbage dump. His face crumpled and he was almost silenced by his passionate anger against the injustice he had seen. His sister spoke of working in an orphanage in Bolivia, and observed how thrilled the children were when her family took them for dinner at a fast food restaurant.

Conversely, another group of tourists complained about some of the "bastards" they had encountered in their journey across South America. One girl, who was to spend a night with a family with a five-year-old boy, flatly stated that she did not like children but that the little boy was tolerable because he was quiet. "I was amazed by how thrilled he was when I gave him some pencils and paper," she had added, as if to redeem herself.

Different Standards

Last night was a tad discouraging: we took a 10-hour train ride and arrived at our hotel, longing for a quiet night. We quickly discovered that we were starring in a migrane headache commercial. Directly outside of our window a band was playing its heart out, trumpets and all--completely, hopelessly out of tune. Crowds cheered as fireworks exploded above our hotel. What made the scenario particularly dispiriting was the fact that the chaos would die down for a few minutes, enough time to give us hope that the madness was soon to end. Then the trumpets would begin their cacaphonous torrent of noise once again.

How I longed for the wail of dogs, the early rising rooster, or the screams of a crying baby--anything to erase those cursed trumpets!