Every guide book we have read starts with the same six words. Peru is a land of contrasts. It then usually continues to develop this theme by emphasising the three distinct geographical zones: the coastal desert strip, the mighty Andes mountain range, and the of the Amazon river jungle.
But, as we move from coastal Lima to ancient Cusco, via the magic of Lake Titicaca, our overwhelming impressions of this surreal nation are founded more on the similarities of Peru than the differences. Yes, topography varies wildly, and influences the everyday opportunities of the local people. But the similarities as we move around are just as noticeable. First, the unfailing politeness and good spirits of the local people – it seems the less they have, the more they smile. Of course they are hoping for a tip, or to sell you a bottle of water, or postcard or woven bangle. But when you decline, there is no ill feeling whatsoever. The guide books will warn you to hold fast to your belongings – yet twice we have lost possessions – a credit card and a camera, no less – and twice they have been returned withing 24 hours in mint condition. Petty theft and pickpocketing may be occurring but our experience has been very positive.
So this country of nearly 30 million people, living on an average inmcome of barely US$6,000 per annum is treating us very kindly indeed.
Our journey started in Lima, where we spent a sunny afternoon around the main plaza, home to many fine examples of Spanish colonial architecture, both civil structures and churches. Imagine our surprise when in the lat afternoon, as we noticed the numbers of local families increasing, the gates of the Presidential Palace were flung open and the Presidential Guard appeared, accompanied by the Naval Band in pristine white, and they paraded around the main square, twirling bayonets as they presented arms.
After Lima we flew to Arequipa, known as the White City after the volcanic sillar stone which forms the basis of most buildings in the town square. Here we stayed in the delightful Casa del Melgar, a former Archbishops home, and well-placed for easy walks to the main attractions. The standout experience for us in Arequipa was our visit to Santa Catalina Convent – a self contained cćity within a city dating back to 1579 where daughters of rich locals would pay a dowry to join the order, taking with them servants and familiar items to make life comfortable. Giovanna was our guide and spent an hour and a half patiently explaining life as it was, and as it is now for the 30 or 40 remaining nuns aged between 19 and 92.
From Arequipa we once again availed ourselves of the services of LAN airlines, flying to Juliaca airport. Here we transferred by car to Puno, the main town on the shores of Lake Titicaca. Our first night was at the Hotel Libertador del Lago, magnificently positioned on an island on the northern side of the lake, and a sanctuary of beautiful views and magnificent bird calls, far form the traffic frenzy downtown. From the Libertador it is just a short walk to the Yavari an old British vessel first transported to the lake from the UK in 1862. Whilst Titicaca is the worlds highest navigable lake, to bring the separate parts of the old steam ship in was no mean feat. Shipped to Arica, then by train to Tacna, the parts were finally put on the back of mules for the last leg up and over the mountains. This journey took six long years to complete. The Yavari has now been preserved – largely due to the efforts of the good Captain Carlos Saavedra, and an indefatigable Englishwoman named Meriel Larken, who set about fund raising with a vengeance – to the extent she secured funding from HRH the Duke of Edinburgh. Learn more about it!
Another amazing experience was a visit to the floating islands of Uros with our guide, Franscisco. The islands are home to some 700 or so local native people [also called Uros] who live on banks of reeds a short boat trip from the port of Puno. Existing by fishing, making handicrafts they are eminently cheerful and resourceful. Their colourful costumes and jaunty hats are great fun - and when they drag you into a hut and encourage you to don this gear for a photo, you know they have had the last laugh!
As we write this we are enjoying the greatest adventure of all – a 10-hour train trip from Puno to the Aztec capital of Cusco on board the Andean Explorer. We have downed the obligatory welcome cocktails – Pisco Sours – and enjoyed the ebullient music and dancing of Pachamama the brightly clad local band. It is 11.30am and the linen and cutlery is being set up for lunch. Looking out at the parched Andean ranges, the thatched huts and the bright blue sky, we come back to the only conclusion we have formed about Peru thus far – it is surreal.
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Geoff’s Blog - Mother and Son
What am I to make of Mother? At this stage my mum is in care as she slips slowly and surely into a world of limited words, memories and conversation. This (as many carers will tell you) is not the mother I have known.
Mother The Cook. Mother the Washer Woman. Mother the keeper of My Father. (Often keeping him away from us kids I suspect). Mother The all-round advisor, visionary and encourager. Mother the Champion Businesswoman in our suburb. This is (or was) my mother.
She had a saying when I strayed (often to her hurt) from the expected.
“Gladly my little cross I’d bear.” To my insensitive ears it made no sense, since what I heard was, ”Gladly my little cross-eyed bear.” She would bear the cross of my being a rather disappointing son by not doing whatever she had in mind for me.
In that, she was a fellow traveller with the parable teller’s mother who found it difficult when her son did not follow a life-path which she may have expected. This was the son promised to her by other-worldly visitors and life changing events. This is the son who was seen by her surrounding relatives as illegitimate. He was certainly special. Mystics came soon after the birth to visit and bring gifts. A king wished to kill him so the family became refugees.
Special. There was a trip when he was 12 years old where he painfully vanished for a couple of days. She knew he had special abilities so when at a wedding at which they were both guests ran out of alcohol, she pushed him to do something only to earn a rebuke for her trouble, yet to have before her eyes an unexpectedly generous miracle. It is recorded that she “kept all these things in her heart.” But it was only the beginning of curious and heart-wrenching pain.
He became a wandering teacher and healer. He gathered round a group of rag tag followers. He became an object of desire for some, and a structural threat to others. He narrowly avoided being at the head of a mob who wanted to make him king. In time though he managed to irrevocably offend and upset the entrenched power bases and become a condemned man. Yet to his mother, what had he done? Told some obscure stories. Healed the sick and tormented. Made some astute observations about existing political structures. But he wasn’t a criminal. They killed him anyway.
The Roman method of execution was certain and brutal. It was a cross on which you hung until your body gave way. From one to four days. This was where he died. His followers fled. His mother watched. His mother watched and bore this cross way beyond our imagining.
This is mothers. They bear us in the beginning and then bear with us in various states through our lives. The cross we put on them is our own doing. Our own errant behaviour. For the mother of Jesus it was a cross of unfairness, unreasonableness and irrationality. By this time, in all probability a widow, it was a strike at the very heart where she kept her hopes dreams and memories.
What is the cross we have put on our mothers? Some of us may not even be aware of being a “cross eyed bear” to them. The record is that Jesus died, was buried after the cross, but rose out of the grave to see his mother again. Is it, on Mothers’ Day, time to visit our mothers, understand the cross they have borne and bring new life to our relationships?
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