mikeandv

 

Lima

We arrived at 5.00am with our shrink-wrapped luggage looking like it had been trussed up by an enormous spider. The authorised taxi fee was taking the p*ss (around 35 euros). Where did he think he was; Nice?  So we grabbed an official taxi outside. Perhaps this guy had been taught to drive on the Cote d’Azur. Jesus wept. More on car antics in Peru later.

There was barely enough space for our bags as a number of taxis have LPG or LNG tanks in the boot, as petrol is very expensive. For this reason I was glad Jenson had an adequately dimensioned gas propelled rocket rather than the Daewoo Tico matchbox things that are ubiquitous in Peru.

We made it to our Posada at 6.00am. Our room was occupied until check out at 12.00 so we were offered the social room until then. V took the sofa, I skewed myself into an armchair. A lovely English couple saw our plight over their breakfast and checked out early so we could get some kip. I was face down in my own saliva until mid afternoon.

We dropped off our washing (perhaps this is where V’s summer dress went missing. Who knows?) and went for some lunch. A leathery faced gentleman served us some lovely fare, washed down with the local equivalent of Irn Bru. Inca Cola is nuclear yellow, melts your teeth although I am unsure of its hangover curing properties - something I have called upon many times of its orange Scottish relative.

For the Church of Santo Domingo we invested in a guide, had a stroll around the market and then went for some dinner. Looking lost on a streetcorner, V’s guidebook in hand a girl asked where we wanted to be. Dragging her partner with her she personally led us to the restaurant.

More fabulous scoff before watching the rehearsal of some dancers prior to their big night performing in the main square. Some Michael Jackson Thriller moves reminded me of the inhabitants of the 7^th floor of the Aigue Marine. Unlike the boys in Engineering, the dancers weren’t very good (No I’m not mellowing; I need a job when we get back).

After walking around all day we were feeling lazy so I flagged down a taxi and V negotiated our fare home.

Ronnie our driver (his name was on the rearview mirror) was a talented chap as he could drive, send text messages and twiddle the knobs on his Kenwood all at the same time.

I felt that I may never prosper, wedged as I was between the near horizontal seat of Ronnie ‘Roger’ Ramjet and the gas canister in his boot.

 

Next day we took a taxi to the Museo de la nacion and a guided tour within.

The young lass who was our guide, once completing the tour pointed us in the direction of the upstairs exhibition of the civil war that choked Peru for over 20 years

I was unaware of such trauma within the country, but this was truly eye-opening. During the late 70’s and early 80’s a group calling themself the ‘Shining Path’ emerged that fought against the government through guerrilla warfare. Terrorism, if you will. The judiciary were not their only victims, but civilians too that did not join or support their cause. In response, the government armed militias, introduced death squads and instigated other underhand methods to subvert the Shining Path.

Not black and white, but as many shades of grey as the photographs, the testimonies and the portraits of the ‘disappeared’.

Following the arrest of the remaining Shining Path leaders in 2000, in an attempt to heal the wounds caused by both sides a commission was established to record the stories of those involved – civilians and military alike. Amnesty was granted to those who told the truth and the exhibition is part of that.

It is both brave and humbling. Perhaps we should portray our feelings more over troubled times in our countries. Perhaps we lack the courage.

Although no longer active, the Shining Path had aligned themselves with Columbian drug cartels to finance their struggle and the remnants exist as gangsters and drug dealers. This is the reason the north of Peru close to the border with Columbia is not the safest area to be.

I would advise anyone to read about the civil war and the commission’s work afterwards.

 

Lunch was in a little restaurant next to the museum, serving local specialities. It was rammed so we ate at the bar/ counter. V made the right choice; Ceviche (marinated raw fish). I didn’t and had can can (fatty pig feet). So I shared V’s.

 

The next museum was the Museo anthropologie, where again we employed a guide.

Following this we visited the covenant and catacombs of San Francisco, where thousands of bones are stored. Our tiny guide was the ideal height for avoiding banging his pate on the ceilings. He could have had a job with Willy Wonka.

 

On our return to the Hotel (Posade del Parque) we were greeted with the fine news that they had offered us a bottle of wine for turning up (or something). I think we were the 20^th customer that month. So that was in the fridge waiting for us.

Stepping out for some dinner we ate at a sublime sushi restaurant. Again it was packed, but the food was worth it. Sensational and steroidal. I’ve never seen bigger sushi, and it was perfect. I ate a meal for two on my own and V ordered enough maki to choke a whale.

There was no way we could fit in the bottle of wine from the hotel after that, so to bed on our backs, belly up.

The following day we would be off to Nazca, but since we would be returning to Lima prior to our flight to Argentina, we asked the Posade del Parque to keep our wine for us.

 

On the subject of food I have a little problem with the number of chickens consumed every day in Mexico and Peru. There are 107 million residents in Mexico, 23 million of them in Mexico City. Peru has 27 million souls.

The staple food in both countries is the humble chicken. That is a lot of fowl consumed everyday. Where are these kept/ reared/ slaughtered/ plucked/frozen?

Quick figures: say that a family eats a chicken a day (in Peru and Mexico). 5 persons in a family then that would be 27 million chickens per day, give or take a few.

27 million feathered cluckers take a lot of space. That number could fill the void between Paris Hilton’s ears. Every day. How come I can’t see them? I can hear some of them in the morning it is true but the figures don’t add up.

If they ever become sentient and rebellious we’re in trouble. Beware of the chickens. Same for civil engineers.

 

Another peculiarity of the Peruvians was to speak into their phone as if they were Captain James T. Kirk with his communicator. I guessed that it was due to the swine flu or possibly harmful microwaves from the handset. German (pronounced Her-man) our agent in Cuzco (see later) explained that there are cheap phone deals where you use your phone like a walkie-talkie (talkie-walkie for the French). One person speaks, the other listens. Not sure how some of my female friends would cope (yes, Zoe Roulot I am referring to you).

 

A 6 hour bus was our chosen transport to Nazca, via an undulating, twisting road through desolate desert and rocks.

Nazca

On arrival there were touts waiting for tourists like fleas for a dog. Jumped in a taxi and the driver took us….round the corner, where our hotel was. Oh well. Should have checked the map.

We arranged with the hotel our flight over the cryptic Nazca lines the following day and had a wander around the town. There really is nothing in Nazca save for the etchings in the desert, decrypted (partially) by Maria Reiche over her lifetime spent on the sands. She passed away in 1998.

A friend and colleague of Maria Reiche still resides in Nazca and V’s guide book recommended seeking her out for a lecture.

Veronika is her name, and she has spent a lot of time in the sun. A little too much. She is madder than an attic full of balloons, but hugely endearing. She described in detail to just the two of us the discoveries Maria Reiche had made in her attempts to discern reason from the lines.

Unfortunately for Veronika, contemporary scientists have tapped both her and Maria’s knowledge so that they no longer require working with her. She is a lost soul trapped in Nazca.

She showed the damage inflicted on the lines by traffic (straight through the monkey’s tail) and from water erosion. One of the reasons the lines have lasted so long (from between 2900 and 1300 years – 900BC to 700AD) is due to the arid conditions in the region. That has changed recently with increased rainfall flooding the plains and tearing at the markings.

What has been done to prevent this, you may well ask?

The Nazca lines are an UNESCO world heritage site, but there seems to be little in the way of protecting these baffling motifs for the future or continuing the work of Maria Reiche.

It is all very short-sighted. For when the lines have washed away, so will Nazca be itself.

Educated and rather depressed we took the flight in a little fixed wing over the lines and glyphs the following day. The damage was clear to see, and in many ways clearer than the main attractions themselves.

Oh and I threw up, just before we were about to land. Fighter pilot I will never be.

That same day all the electricity in the town was out. We could not withdraw cash, so it was budget lunch with what I had left in my wallet.

Later that evening when power was restored we took in a more professional and polished lecture in the hotel where Maria lived whilst studying the lines. The chap explained, rather more eloquently than Veronika, the conclusions of Ms Reiche. The alignment with the stars, solstices, constellations, natural aquaducts for finding water. Veronika did trump him with her explanation of ‘The Hands’ figure, where she proposed that it is a local potato plant. Same configuration of leaves and the root. A very important crop for the ancients. Also that Maria loved ‘The Hands’ as it has 9 ‘fingers’ just as she had.

The final slides of the lecture showed the damage to the lines from both man and nature but our narrator was silent over these. It only added more weight to what Veronika had said the previous night.

There has to be a change in attitude towards the lines from those that are milking them for thousands of Peruvian Soles every day. Hotels, restaurants, charter flights, bus companies, taxis, tour operators, airlines, street sellers; all depend on them for their livelihood. When there is nothing left to see then not only will it be a loss to the world but a huge infliction on the town, region and country.

We overnight-ed on a bus to Arequipa.

Arequipa

We only had a short time in Arequipa between the bus that brought us and the next one that evening (early morning), so V managed to negotiate a reduced rate with the friendly owner of our hotel. After a shower we took a wander around town, taking in the two main convents. Thank God for religion and its edifices to keep us tourists busy between eating.

The life the nuns led was explained to us. Many were the youngest daughters of rich families. They lived in total isolation from their families (coming from Spain, entering at the age of twelve), chatting to them via a meshed hatchway (so that faces were hidden) once a month or so. Deliveries were via a turnstile so even the delivery man couldn’t catch sight of a nun, nor her him.

In the convents, each nun had a little yard where she could raise guinea pigs for consumption. There were even some of the little critters still running around.

Full of happiness that we were not nuns (I believe they are so called after the number of reasons to become one) we fed ourselves in the convent café, finishing with carrotcake all made by the sisters themselves. Food of God. 

After a browse of the cathedral we stopped for a drink in a coffeeshop, owned by a young Frenchman. We chatted about Nazca and he mentioned the very short term attitude prevalent in Peru when it comes to their National Heritage.

We had a power nap before going to eat (knowing that we would be leaving in the middle of the night) and V chose the guinea pig. Tasty beast but not a lot of meat on it, especially on the head, which had also came deep fried on the plate.

Back to bed then up at midnight to pack for the night bus. We managed somehow to get ourselves and all our stuff into the Daewoo that had been arranged to take us to the terminal.

Now both of our guidebooks had said not to take the night bus, as there had been robberies, rapes and other unmentionables on the road after dark.

When we started stopping on the road to pick up anyone along the way, I knew I would get less sleep than Tiger Woods’s mistress. Coupled with the lack of ventilation and the steady gain in altitude I would have rather spent the night with a real tiger.

Lake Titicaca

We arrived replete with headaches at 7.30am in Puno with the aim of boarding a boat to the islands of the lake.

Lake Titicaca is the highest (around 4000m above sea level) navigable lake in the world. It is also rather large (170km by 60km).

All the rushing with the bus logistics (two trips in the night and a whistle stop in Arequipa without the chance to see the canyons in the area) had been the result of long discussions between myself and V. I wanted to visit the lake and spend some time on one of the islands, while V had been dissuaded by the strong text in her guide advising against visiting during the months of November to January due to bad weather.

V relinquished and here we were, in the streaming sunshine. The added bonus being very few French, fair weather tourists that they are.

V brushed aside touts like a Jedi Master and we picked up some fruit for the family we hoped to be staying with on one of the islands.

The guide at the tourist office promised to have us back in the port by 3.00pm the next day, as we had a bus at 4.00pm.

We chuntered off in a shuttle boat at a speed slower than I can run a marathon. 4 hours for the 40km to our main destination, but we had a first stop closer to Puno at the reed islands of the Uros people.

 

To escape the other warring nations, including the Incas, the Uros nation began living afloat to avoid destruction. The reeds provide everything from their flotation, shelter, fuel to food.

After buying some tat, a ride in a reed canoe and V dressing up in local clothing it was back into the boat for the remainder of the chug to Amantani.

Amantani

The island of Amantani is beautiful; and deathly quiet. No cars, some electricity, some running water (cold). We were introduced to the young girl, Maria-Helena, part of the family with whom we would be staying. She made our lunch (on a little wood fire with some pots) and we ate potatoes, soup and cheese with the family – Antonio (father), Louisa (mother) and Carlos (son).

A round-robin system operates within the community with each family in turn hosting tourists in order to earn a little money. That money is invested back into the community.

While waiting for our guide to lead us around, we watched some Australian tourists play a makeshift football match against a team of locals. The socceroos were coping with the altitude better than V, who still had a headache. Perhaps it is genetic with Australians having more space for expansion in their heads. I was OK, too. For now.

There are two peaks on the island, Pachatata and Pachamama and we chose the former as it was just a little lower at 4150m. The locals lined the path with their stalls and we picked up some Alpaca booties for one of the kids. A recovery hot chocolate was in order and we sat just off the summit in a makeshift café, our hot chocolate warmed on a wood fire once more.

I was now starting to suffer from the altitude and we tried the local brew of coca leaves as a cure.

At dinner I could hardly eat, which my demanding waistline was not happy with. I was also having trouble seeing. A little scary as I was the same after my fall in 2005. I hadn’t had a headache like it since, even after the night on V’s Grandmother’s eau de vie (or ‘Oh dear, V’ if you saw the state of her after over sampling it with Jim and Rhona).

 

The equivalent hooch in Peru is called Pisco. We only saw one local meandering down the streets of Cuzco with the lead boot and the feather slipper on. He had been on the Pis(s)-co.

 

I scrambled to my scratcher and unfortunately we missed the local festivities and spectacle.

The room where we were staying was next to the family sheep pen, with the chickens (there were only a few of them, thankfully) just out front of that.

Antonio works the land to feed his family; subsistence farming, but they really have very little in terms of possessions. What they do have is a great community. When someone needs a house, the full village builds it. It is all reciprocal.

Antonio came to the room and rubbed alcohol on my head with his weathered hands and pulled a Peruvian hat over my head.

My blissful sleep was interrupted during the night when I had to make wee-wee, so I took the little torch and stepped outside. Pitch black. No lights on the island, no noise either. Pure peace.

Next day, fully recovered we ate a quick breakfast that Maria-Helena prepared and were back on the boat; this time to Taquile. The sun was shining again and the colours of the landscape Monet and Matisse would have difficulty recapturing.

Don’t believe everything you read in a guide book.

Taquile

Taquile is the more populated and visited island on Lake Titicaca.

The boat dropped us at one side and we strolled across the island, stopping in the main square, watching while the locals herded their sheep through the plaza. We also had to make way for cows and the occasional bull on the path.

The guide announced that we would be back in Puno by 4.30pm. Oh dear. Our bus was at 4.00pm, remember?

We pulled him aside for a quick word and he thankfully began rearranging the schedule to enable us to make our bus.

So we had an early lunch of trout – some complained that it was too soon to eat and walked off in a huff, some picnicked as they had no cash – but we filled our faces and chatted to a Tasmanian couple who were enamoured to hear that we planned to visit their island.

There was also a young Lithuanian couple who were taking a year to travel the world. We were not jealous, as we hoped that they would choke on a fish bone.

 

We made it to Puno with a little time to spare, grabbed a taxi – but I had no change and neither did the driver. V raced into the terminal to break a note of around 10 euros value.

Inside we quickly recovered our big bags from the locker-room (relieved that they were still there), paid our bus terminal fee and found that the bus was late…..

It meant we had the time to grab some supplies for the journey and V to bribe a girl at one of the ticket offices to use her internet connection. Now we could contact the agent whom V had contracted to take us on the next leg of our journey.

The bus was filthier than a Joe Kinnear press conference. Leaking water (from yesterday’s rain) came through the little ventilation hatches in the roof. If the driver braked on a right-hander, I got a dribble down my neck. It was like working with a structural engineer looking over your shoulder.

The little attendant lady was very apologetic as she served coffee and dabbed at the rivulets seeping through the worn seals.

Cuzco

On arrival in Cuzco we were met by the girlfriend of the agent and a driver in a swish Venga bus. All a change from the last couple of days of buses and cold washes on the island. It was a good break for V, who had been organising most of our time so far. It was now up to someone else (not me, thankfully).

The hotel in Cuzco was at the top of some steps, then some more steps and although a good bit lower than Lake Titicaca, the altitude still drained us as we humped our luggage to our room (via some more steps).

At least it was practice for the Inca Trail and Machu Picchu.

A warm shower (bliss) and then bed.

 

Early next morning German (pronounced Herman) met us in the hotel lobby.

He took us by the hand and led us to the ruins just above Cuzco, Saqsaywaman (pronounced sexy-woman).

Also relaxing for V was that German’s French put mine to shame. He had studied to be a guide at University and was well equipped to point out the nuances we would not have picked up with only our guides and without his expert knowledge.

Saqsaywaman

I have to admit that I was glad that German huffed and puffed his way to the site overlooking Cuzco. V and I therefore had a chance that we would complete the short stretch of the Inca Trail that he had arranged for us to trek.

The stonework of the Incas rivalled that of the Egyptians, with shaped stones and perfect joints. In Cuzco one such stone has 12 sides. One in Macchu Picchu has over 30. Even more staggering is the size of the shaped blocks, with weights up to 300 tonnes. Considering there was no wheel to transport and only soft metal such as bronze to shape them it was a feat of human endeavour. Of course having thousands of slaves helped.

German pointed out the fortifications, and those walls that were solely for aesthetics.

There is a region of polished rock which some schoolchildren and their teachers were using as a slide. V approached to take some pictures of the fun and frolics and was accosted by the kids to appear in their photographs. Tall blondes are rare in Peru, evidently.

Touring the city afterwards we could see the colonial stonework constructed atop the original Inca walls with their elaborate shapes. In many cases, after partly razing the Inca dwellings and temples, the Spanish built directly from these foundations. This is the case in the convent of Santo Domingo/ Inca site of Qorikancha.

The subtle symbolism contained in the mix of European and Inca art from the 16^th and 17^th centuries was also explained to us, with the Virgin Mary taking the form of a mountain, local produce against a background of a European city, Inca patterns in her clothing.

Advised by German we ate in a local Peruvian café, sharing a table with a local family; parents and 2 schoolkids eating together. Not a TV to be seen.

Oh and the cost of the 3 courses? Less than 2 euros.

Our afternoon was free so we withdrew some cash to pay German. Peruvian ATM’s are strange. Although they allow you to withdraw local currency (Soles) and US dollars (much to the chagrin of V) you can only take out a maximum of less than 200 euros per day.

Pain in the hoop if you have some big bills to pay.

Knowing that we had some trekking to do, we finally succumbed to the grim reality of purchasing shocking ‘outdoor adventure’ trousers. Attempting to find a pair that does not make you look homeless or as if you have soiled yourself was the objective. The type that is convertible to shorts from trousers by removing the lower leg portions trigger my gag reflex and are as ubiquitous as unwashed hair and body piercings on backpackers.

Deed duly done and with V still suffering from the altitude we snacked in a local restaurant (GdR) that evening before returning to the hotel in the rain.

Chinchero

German met us in the hotel this time accompanied by Williams the driver of the Venga bus. First stop the impressive terraces of Chinchero.

V was not well and had been up all night opening the pigeon loft (imagine the noise a flock of birds makes when leaving a cage) on the toilet. She bravely filled herself with Imodium and came with us.

Moray

I was looking forward to seeing Moray, as I had read a little about it in my guide but also because of the name; being a place and river in Scotland. It lived up to the expectation. Moray in Scotland is not a bad place, either.

Peruvian Moray is an enormous agricultural experiment by the Incas, with each level of terracing up to 0.5°C different from its neighbour. This is a phenomenon from the air currents induced by the shape, a large circle that reminds me of the U2 video for Vertigo. Only with a better sound (the acoustics are incredible). The scale is also awe inspiring (see the photos) and V did not feel up to clambering up and down. So German and I were alone in the middle of what was originally a meteorite crater, adapted by this ancient civilisation. Crops are still grown here today.

On the subject of agriculture, most Peruvians till the soil by hand or by animal. There are few tractors. Houses are still constructed the same way as in Inca times, using mud, straw and cactus juice (to make the bricks impermeable). Testament to the durability of this method of construction are the basic Inca dwellings still standing 700 years after they were constructed.

Las Salinas de Maras

V was eager to see the salt basins which have been harvested for 3,000 years, probably due to her native region of France being close to the salt pans of Noirmoutier.

A salt water spring is forced from the mountain by tectonic movement and over 4000 basins collect the salt through evaporation. The product is still harvested by hand, with owners of the pans carrying the sacks up by hand while balancing on the ridges between the pools.

Following lunch in a local restaurant (2 euros for 3 courses) we were back on the road.

Ollantaytambo

This fortified city is staggering in its scale. It was a stepping stone on the way to and from Cuzco (one day’s travel by foot – there were no horses before the Spanish and llama can only carry about 30kg. A Norwegian is allowed to lift less. Proof that Llamas are more useful. They also smell better.  

After losing against the Spanish at Saqsaywaman, Manco Inca retreated here, before the Spanish caught up with him once more. He did give them a bit of a shoeing before running off when the Spaniards returned with their big brother and his mates.

It is not just how vast the place is, it is the quality of the stonework that also dazzles. This was the peak of Inca construction. Granite (just like Aberdeen) blocks were hewn from the quarry 6km away and dragged up to the area. The site was never finished (Aberdeen should never have been started) and huge worked stone monoliths can be seen left half way to their destination.

Access to the site was great and you were able to clamber over everything, which the reams of schoolkids did.

Pisac

There are hundreds of dogs in Peru, some a lot wiser than others. On the way to Pisac a puppy ran across the road on a collision course with us. Williams braked and we heard the yelp of the beast.

I had seen the mutt make it past our front wheels but run headlong into a rock; hence the cry of pain. Hopefully that will teach him before he meets a quicker vehicle or one with poorer brakes.

Pisac was a huge agricultural preserve and its terraces stretch as far as the eye can see. We followed the cliff hugging path for around 4km, V keeping an eye on me to ensure I didn’t fall off (almost 5 years and she still doesn’t trust me to look after myself). Equally impressive are the rotten pipe players who ask you for cash.

The site was buzzing with tourists. One girl ducked under the barriers to access the temple of the sun for a unique photo opportunity. The guard blew his whistle but by the time he ran to the temple, she was gone.

German also had to stop one Asian lady climb on the fragile walls. I can’t really have a go at the Peruvians for not looking after their heritage when visiting muppets carelessly damage them.

Have a look at the pictures.

After some lunch and the famous market we had some coffee and cake as 3 courses are just not enough and we are not yet into 3 digits in kilos.

 

Asian tourists take photos of everything. Snap! Here’s me in the airport. Click! Here’s me in the plane. One tourist was taking pictures of the café toilet doors. I pity the family members who have to sit through the Powerpoint presentation.

An English couple were showing off their souvenir which they had bargained hard for (so they informed the camera happy Asian lady). It was two clay bulls with a cross in-between, around 50cm high.

In Peru, all houses have these on the roof. The bulls symbolise strength and contain wheat and alcohol, so that the house will always have a (symbolic) supply of both. The cross is self explanatory, Peru being predominately Roman Catholic. Am not sure how two half-metre high bulls and a cross will look on a mantelpiece in Ipswich, though. It almost ended in tears when the Asian tourist dropped the desired/ offending object. Fate did not look favourably on them that day and the pottery was unharmed.

 

It was time to take in some real wildlife of our own and we visited an alpaca and llama farm. The faces of these things just make me laugh. V invested in a baby alpaca handbag. The guilt came in waves days later when she realised that said alpaca had sacrificed more than his fur for V’s fashion statement.

So very very soft though……

Ollantaytambo

We stayed in ollantaytambo overnight so to catch the early train to a non conventional stop that German had arranged with the train company. This allowed us access to the Inca trail. We shopped for supplies for the next day before eating in the Hearts Café.

Note that the café is not named after the Rangers supporters with no bus fare.

This is a project that a retired Englishwoman set-up to aid the local community. The café employs and is run by locals and is non-profit making. Funds are diverted into medicines, schools and educational materials, a refuge for victims of domestic abuse and under nourished kids. Have a look at www.heartscafe.org to see the work that they foundation does.

Inca Trail

The mythical and mystical Inca Trail can only be walked with an approved guide. Of course, German falls into that category. There are normally 2 options for the Inca Trail; a 4 day hike with 3 nights camping or a 2 day hike with one night under canvas. V and I are not so intent on being in a tent with the unwashed and being short of time, German arranged a one day trudge for us.

We climbed 600m or so in the humidity and rain, glad that it was not bright sunshine.

The lower altitude compared to Lake Titicaca helped us and the walk was actually pleasant.

It is disconcerting to see the rubbish people leave behind on the trail. It is closed in February to allow a clean up, but this surely should not be necessary. My friend, Dan Winters once organised a clean up trip to the Mourne mountains in Northern Ireland. Equipped with trousers banned by the Vatican (no piercings that I know of, though) and bin-bags, himself and other walkers collected tonnes of jetsam from fellow ‘hikers’. A little bit of responsibility is all it takes.

 

Winay Wayna

We picnicked (zero impact, all traces removed) with our supplies purchased in Ollantaytambo, alone with the views. Winay Wayna was an agricultural hub, supplying much needed crops to Machu Picchu farther along the trail (so an apt spot for a munch). The numerous fountains served not only as irrigation channels but for purifying those on their way to the most sacred of sites.

Intipunko (Sun gate)

We rounded the mountain to the sun gate and the sight (and site) was electrifying. Although shrouded in mist, the view of Machu Picchu was still spellbinding. I took some photos with my phone, only realising later I had some dirt on the lens. Still, have a look at the (Machu) pictures.

We wandered down to the viewing points in the Machu Picchu past the tourists who had not been on the Inca Trail (amateurs) but we did not linger long as German had the main visit scheduled for the following day.

Aguas Calientes

There is a bus service to and from Machu Picchu from the nearest town, Aguas Calientes. This is run by the same company that operates the main site of Machu Picchu. Also the catering outside the site. All very cosy. The price of entry rises more often than a pubesvent teenager’s er, temperature? while watching a Shakira video.

 

Aguas Calientes is even more cynical. V likened it to a ski resort – ugly, functional, soulless and expensive. In my opinion more like Paris Hilton. Food is twice the price of any other place in Peru, including Lima. The Guide de Routard (being more like the guide de Michelin than a travel book on occasion) states ‘because all food is imported (due to its isolation) frozen, defrosted then refrozen at the best you will have a terrible meal. At the worst you will be ill.’ I refused to believe the French tome until we entered the 2^nd restaurant of the night – the first was too expensive – to be met by higher prices. Not to be outdone by V on the killing fluffy animals count I ordered Alpaca. It came in the form of a square. With chips. And a totem thing carved out of sweet potato, which was not to be eaten. The waiter was pleasant and efficient and acted with élan when a cockroach made a Usain Bolt like dash across the table just after he had placed our meals in front of us.

Fortunately, we fell into the former GdR category of the food in Aguas Calientes.

Sometimes you should trust the guide.

Machu Picchu

German met us early in the morning and we took the bus up to the site.

If you follow the rules, you are not allowed to take food into Machu Picchu. This includes water. Today was toasty and to bake under the sun then have to exit to eat and drink over-priced food and beverages before re-entering is frankly shameful. So we had our rucksacs loaded with goodies. German took us around the main part of the site and explained the intricacies that are not provided in any literature or panels as part of your massive entry fee. And there are no toilets. Again you have to go outside (well I had a wee wee inside, but only V and an alpaca saw me)

German left us to it after a number of hours as we planned to climb the 600m or so up to Wayna Picchu.

Wayna Picchu

Only a limited number of visitors are allowed access to Wayna Picchu, as decreed by UNESCO to preserve the integrity of this eagles’ nest.

Both our guidebooks said that it was quite a sedate climb. The signs saying that you must be fit at the entrance to the route suggested otherwise (unless it was a spelling mistake and it meant ‘fat’).

We climbed during the cooler morning. In the afternoon when we descended there were many struggling with the even greater heat, humidity and (steeper even than the entry fee) slope.  It was harder work on the narrow stone staircase than getting a smile from a French waiter. Some particularly treacherous parts had wires and chains to hold on to. At a steady pace, the climb takes between 40 and 45 minutes from Machu Picchu.

When we reached the summit, my legs were shaking like that Stevens singing character from the 80’s. I was more than a little apprehensive about the return descent.

We picnicked out of sight of the warden with his whistle. Without the food and drink fuelling us, it would have been rather dangerous for us to negotiate the path down.

It was all worth it. The view was simply spectacular with nothing like it on earth.

As we started our return, a girl collapsed on the terrace beside us, her head bumping the earth (not the stone, thankfully). Further down the steps, passing those in the afternoon shift climbing to the site were the rescue team bearing a stretcher. No helicopter here. I didn’t fancy their forthcoming task, nor the ride down in the gurney.

Waynu Picchu - don’t always trust the guides.

 

We toured Macchu Picchu for a few further hours and missed the insights of German. Thanks Nico Schopf for putting us in touch with him. He is a quality item.

Back in Aguas Calientes I had a haircut (which turned out to be the only decent service we received there). We were enticed into a restaurant after a bidding war over the price of an espresso with the neighbouring establishment. Once inside I noticed that all the prices on the menu were higher than those the guy on the door had shown to us. Wilier than Reynard the Fox. Or is sly the correct term here? After a pizza that would make Massimo Chiodi call for his mama and a coffee made from cold soil (the owner tried to charge us the original price) it was time to grab the train back to Ollayantambo.

 

More of my gear had failed. The soles of my walking shoes were flapping like George W Bush looking for a reason to invade Iraq and my attempts to superglue them back on had only resulted in sticking some of my clothing together when the tube burst in my bag. I was praying that they would last the Inca Trail and Machu Picchu, and thankfully they never failed mid-stride like my flip flops had. They now rest in Cuzco.

Lima

Taca was the airline we used for the internal flight and on it were a number of familiar faces from the ‘Gringo Trail’, the name given to the main attractions of Peru. We were booked to stay again at the Posada del Parque, where our bottle of wine was waiting for us. Our flight was delayed due to a young guy who had a couple of seizures prior to take off. Luckily an American woman, claiming to be a nurse examined him and determined that the cause of his malady (first attack) was altitude sickness. After the all-clear, he had another attack. The nurse returned to assist and was duly informed by another (American) passenger that she thought that the victim was ‘faking it’. Of course. He was just looking for attention. He had never received enough hugs from mommy when he was a nipper.

So back to the stand and the walk of shame for the young guy and his partner. We arrived in Lima an hour late with the taxi driver organised by our hosts awaiting us. Traffic in Lima is atrocious. Especially when they are retarmaccing the main thoroughfare through the city. An hour and a half to get to our accommodation, when normally it is 20 minutes.

I don’t know about the stress levels of the driver but my knuckles were white and some other important muscles were tight, too.

Articulated lorries reversing down choked residential areas with the overspill of traffic, thrusting and darting taxis, venga buses and private cars, most equipped with a canister of gas in the boot (just like ours). For all their politeness outside of their vehicles, drivers in Lima are the most aggressive and discourteous I have come across.

We shopped for Christmas presents for the family and took a taxi back to the Posada. Since V negotiated the price he was a wee bit miffed and proceeded to tell us that it was not good for tourists to do so. Some taxi drivers have taken their clients to narrow streets before robbing them. Instead of just robbing them with the fare? I would have asked if I could speak Spanish. Once he had dropped us off, he exited his cab and pissed on the street. Classy.

 

There are no meters in the taxis in Peru. This means you have to negotiate every fare with the driver. The taxi pulls up to a potential customer who then leans in through the passenger window to haggle. Meanwhile, the horns blare from the bottle-necked vehicles behind. Over and over again this occurs, as the taxi hops on to the next possible client if he has not agreed a price with the first.

Peru, fit meters in your taxis. Problem solved, traffic moves, no horns.

Except that a lot of the cars don’t have horns. They have bleeps that sound like R2D2 on crack. At least the General Lee (of Dukes of Hazard fame) had a bit of style to its horn but some rabid android (don’t get me wrong I like R2D2 but I wouldn’t like to sit next to him/ her/ it on a long haul flight) chirping away frankly gets on my t*ts.

Another piece of advice: don’t buy a house near a corner or junction in Lima. Every time a Peruvian driver comes close to a crossroads or slipway, the horn/ robot imitation device is used. How about slowing down and looking instead?

Not sure if it is wrong to do so, but we returned to the sushi restaurant we visited when we arrived in Lima the first time. Again, it was superb but we limited our intake to half of what we consumed on our premier visit.  Can’t afford the jeans with the elastic waistbands, so quantity is back to French levels. Our taxi driver on the return journey (10 minutes) used his horn 14 times…….

 

Peru has beautiful people. The kids are so cute you want to do a Madonna and just keep them for yourself.

We thought that maybe we would be swamped by other tourists and the commercialisation would dwarf the magnitude of the whole experience. Thankfully we were wrong. A little disconcerting is the lack of care of some of the treasures of Peru by both the government and the tourists who flock to visit them. Plastic bottles on the Inca trail are not comparable to having the Nazca lines washed away or obliterated by cars, but a little more diligence and attention is needed. Peruvian schoolchildren being educated at the sites should continue forever. Peru is wondrous and should be cherished, not neglected.

Vinales

I wanted to back-pack it in the bus, V wanted to hire a car. In both our guide books it said – hiring a car; don’t. So we hired a car. Beforehand we purchased the only known map of Cuba, with pictograms of the motorways (number of bridges, train track crossings – really) so you could at least guess where you were. A nun would give you more indication than the signs in Cuba. I think they were all taken down and remoulded into Lada doors. Or fridge freezers.

I also wanted some supplies, so we had a look in the best equipped grocery store in Havana (according to my Lonely Planet). Some tins of tuna, bread, shampoo, biscuits, ham and water. And a lady asking us for money so that she could buy her baby some milk. Not good.

 

After 4 days, we were happy to leave. Tchau, Havana.

We said good-bye to Edilise, thanked her for her hospitality and with our bags that weighed the equivalent of a sofa, we went to hail a taxi. With luck we managed to grab an old chap who graciously necked his beer so we didn’t have to wait. You couldn’t make this up. V sat in the back with the distended rucksacks, as the boot on his Lada seemed to be for decoration. Closing the passenger door there was a gap that could be seen from space. Still, he was very nice and very calm (perhaps due to the beer).

As we picked up the car at the hotel on the other side of Havana, we did the inspection; rear windscreen wiper – missing; side indicator repeaters – gone; spare wheel – in the boot so it couldn’t be pinched from beneath; tyres – 3 different makers – Dunlop, Yokahama and Toyo. At least 2 were the same, just at opposite corners. A tropical storm was passing Cuba as we left and that is when I discovered that my windscreen wiper would have been more use as a comb. I drove with the same visibility as you would have looking through your front door letterbox. Thankfully, the passenger side wiper was in a better state so V could hunt out those mythical roadsigns.

 

There is no chance of you dozing off on the motorways in Cuba. The road surface makes the Basse Corniche feel as smooth as Cadbury’s Caramel. So you weave from side to side to try and avoid losing a wheel. Some parts have recently been resurfaced, but these are rarer than an X-Factor (Star Academy/ Pop Idol for the French) contestant with an IQ over 60.

On the motorway we encountered:

• Bicycles. Coming towards us, going in our direction and crossing the 6 lanes.
• Cows and goats on the grass verges. There are no barriers.
• Tractors. Coming towards us, going in our direction and crossing the 6 lanes.
• People selling roast or unplucked chickens, onions, garlic and cakes. All you need for a square meal.
• Train tracks. No trains though. Apparently 80% of the trains are late, 20% cancelled. The only one we saw we actually managed to get in the cab with the drivers. More on that later.
• Horses and carts. Coming towards us, etc, etc.
• Hitchhikers. Lots and lots. Soldiers, policemen, mums, grandmothers, kids, young people going to work, coming back from work, students.   

Hitchhiking is a way of life in Cuba because people are not allowed to have their own car. If you are fortunate enough to be employed in an occupation where a car is provided by the state (invariably a 25+ year old Lada) even then it does not belong to you. It is the state’s. The infrastructure for moving people around the country, from their homes to their places of work (or even to see their families) is non-existent. There are smoke-belching buses and trucks which do stop (sometimes) to pick up groups of people huddled under bridges sheltering from the fierce sun, but they are few. If you are the owner/ guardian of a vehicle with a blue number plate you are obliged to stop. This was Fidel’s idea to circumvent the transport shortage. Problem is that very few vehicles with these plates do come to a halt, much to the chagrin of the poor hitchhikers. Us being tourists, our Peugeot 307 break (La Classe – it turned heads, honestly) had a brown/maroon matriculation plate with a big T before the number.

The hitchhikers were obviously not used to tourists stopping so we were rarely signalled. Some proffered moneda nacional (MN, the local currency) in their fanciful fists to increase their prospects of a ride. It took us a while to pluck up the courage to stop. It was the help and directions we received from everyone we met - there were many, as there are no signs. None. Not even on the entrance to a town. We had to ask people where we were (thank the Lord that V speaks “Portunol”) and when we showed them the map, it was obvious that they had never seen one before – that compelled us to do so.

It is like having the train and bus strike in Monaco everyday. Except the people are friendlier. The time and effort lost by Cuba and Cubans waiting by the roadside is staggering.

 

After ferrying a few motorway stragglers, we picked up 3 students about 25km from Vinales. They directed us to the door of the Casa Particular where we hoped to spend the next 2 nights. Cubans are helpful and mannerly.

Unfortunately the Casa Particular was fully booked, but the owner’s son led the way in his tuned car (bright green, turbo badge, baked bean tin sized exhaust) to his cousin’s house. She also ran a Casa Particular.

So we bunked in with Gloria.

This was the start of our laziness. Knowing that we need never reserve anywhere in the future, we would turn up in the village and the locals would find somewhere agreeable for us to stay. They would phone their contacts in the places we planned to visit, booking the room for us. Brilliant.

Gloria is a fantastic cook and her fish was the best we tasted in Cuba. No offence, Oivind.

We ate at the house as the food was invariably superior to what could be found in a local restaurant and it also added a little to the coffers of the proprietor.

 

After the fall of the Berlin wall and the iron curtain, the Soviet subsidy to Cuba crumbled too. It is estimated that this was to the tune of US$3M per day. The standard of living plummeted. The motorway construction stopped abruptly. Testament to this is the unfinished bridges spanning the motorway. Slip roads just end in fields. At one stage of the highway, the 3 lanes end and you have to share the other side with oncoming traffic for about 100km. Middle lane is for those with a set of oversized swingers. Or X-Factor/ Star Academy/ Pop Idol contestants.

With near riots in Havana, Fidel opened Cuba to tourism and let people rent their homes to the influx of visitors. So was born the Casa Particular. Those fortunate to live in a beautiful area such as Vinales, Trinidad or Cienfuegos could have a tourist pay per night what a lawyer or doctor earns in a month. About US$25 = 25CUC (pesos convertibles).

At the same time the dichotomy of modern Cuba took place. Those with access to tourist money. And those who don’t. Oivind summed it up well; ‘tourists don’t need lawyers or doctors. Tourists need taxis.’ So a lot of lawyers, dentists and doctors drive taxis in Cuba.

Not quite what Fidel envisioned in 1957, methinks.

 

Gloria was extremely friendly, the room was clean – the ants and helicopter-sized mosquitoes were equally comfortable – and the food was a delight. On the 2^nd night we even had birthday cake.

Two English girls were renting the adjacent room to us on our first night. Hello Asha and Rita.

 

Only problem chez Gloria was a rooster next door that liked to crow at 5.00am and then every subsequent 30 seconds. This is a problem when you do not have glass in your windows, only louvers. Earplugs saved the day/ morning (good advice, Jim and Rhona) and I hoped to see the miscreant either roasted or hanging upside down by his scrawny legs on the motorway.

 

Unfortunately the weather was pants, so we could not fulfil what we wished to do in Vinales on our first full day, which was to take a horse and trek through the countryside. Vinales is stunningly green. Like a sea-sick Ireland supporter in pea soup.

So under the sheet rain on the first day we visited the huge painted cliff face (love it or loathe it), one of the smaller caves and a woman’s garden. Her grandfather had greenfingers (green hands if you are French) and had begun his botanical experiment generations ago. Her family had continued it to this day and she happily led us around, even offering V a little flower. Bless. The dolls’ heads on poles are not to everyone’s taste, unless your name is Vlad.

The 2^nd day we visited the larger and more impressive of the caves, where V managed to fall on the muddy trail at the exit. No bones broken, thankfully. Makes a change from me.

V and I made a logistical error trying to cut across the smaller roads to reach Cienfuegos, instead of heading north to the larger, saner National road or motorway.

No roadsigns, towns that did not exist on the map at least (sorry Junca), parts of the map which were simply lies and roads that would take the tread off a Sherman. After 3 hours of swerving like a Beckham free-kick around potholes it was time to step back onto the path more travelled. Again, we stopped often so V could ask the locals for directions.

Numerous hitchhikers were transported and as a rosy fingered sunset formed, we were still an hour from our destination.

Cienfuegos

It was with dusk falling that the trusty 307 threw in its second surprise; the headlights. They were as bright as a Glasgow Rangers supporter. The only way that I could discern if there was something ahead of me was to use full beam, or the Force. Not being a Jedi, I resorted to the former which although allowing me to see a good 20 metres ahead of me (yes, on full beam) it also had the benefit of blinding the oncoming horses, cyclists, trucks, buses and cars.

Cubans are the most courteous of drivers and they were obviously having the same visibility problem as me. So they would dip their lights some metres ahead of me (as would I) so we could pass each other in stealth mode.

There is nothing more furtive than a horse and cart at 10km/h with no lights or reflectors on an unlit road. I almost rear ended one when my lights were dipped. I could hear the silent scream from the girl we picked up on the slip road as the back end of the cart suddenly appeared 3 metres ahead of me. Full beam, the only way to travel.

 

V weaved her directional and map magic on the way into town and we arrived at the casa where we hoped to stay. Unfortunately it was full, but the might of the Cuban Cienfuegos Casa Contacts swung into action and we were escorted by a gentleman to the casa himself and his wife, Perla ran.

Perla and her husband were jewels and they overfed us with their home cooking while offering advice on what to do in and around town.

Fidel has his home in Cienfuegos. It is a sleepy holiday village with well looked after colonial houses and other buildings. We drank mojitos and daiquiris on the roof terrace of the Palacio del Valle, overlooking the bay and the town while a band played Cuban favourites.

The following day (after being awoken by the neighbour’s rooster) we explored the town a little, walking up and down the Prado to the Punta Gorda (where we were staying).

All very civilised.

Trinidad

We took a quick detour via the botanical gardens where we managed to upset an old English couple, the gent being in mid focus of a prize winning photo of two butterflies when V and I bumbled through the brush. He was less amused than the two ants that tried to carry off my big toe.

Perla reserved in advance our guesthouse in Trinidad. All we had to do was get there. We decided not to drive at night ever again and we left at mid-day.

On arrival we were signalled by a Jinetera (female hustler) with a wave of her finger in ‘no, no’ gesture. I stopped the car as I thought that we were heading up a one way street, the wrong way. No signs, you see. After a short conversation we bounced away from her up the cobblestoned street before a jinetero leaped in front of the car trying the same act of finger waving. This time I continued on without stopping, rounding him as Roberto Baggio would a training cone.

A friendly copper directed us to what we thought was our Casa. An old style colonial building with furniture to match. Long story short, it wasn’t. The proprietor took us to another building where we were to stay, again a beautiful old house. Unfortunately the room Perla had reserved for us had been rented out. Such is the desire of the owners to ensure that their rooms are filled, they take any opportunity. Owners of Casa Particulares are strictly controlled by the state and pay $100CUC - $250CUC every month to Fidel’s fund even if their room(s) has not been rented.

There then followed a flurry of phone calls to find us somewhere to stay. We were offered an attic room with a little terrace in a modern house. It was more of a tart’s boudoir than a bedroom. Red silk sheets. Hmmmm. V wisely said that we were looking for something more 'traditional' so not to upset the owner (we couldn’t have lugged our rucksacks up to the room via the narrow precarious stairs in any case).

Eventually a room was found for us with Yaniesy, a lovely, timid lady with a little private terrace adorned by a hammock. Perfect. She has a young parakeet called Cuca, who can whistle and speak.

Trinidad is a timewarp back to Spanish rule. Undulating cobblestone streets, ornate architectural buildings and a quiet picturesque main square.

After a hard day wandering through the museums we sampled the local drink, Canchacharas at a bar of the same name.

Canchacharas are like breasts. 1 is not enough, 3 are too many.

We then feasted chez Yaniesy before taking in the live music, salsa and a few mojitos in the centre.

The following day we took the car to Playa Ancon, a white sandy beach 15km from Trinidad. Sea temperature was around 25 - 26°C. Fabulous.

We gave two Irish lads, Sean and Francis a lift back to Trinidad in the Peugeot.

Later on we met up with them again for mojitos and beer in the main square, where the nightly live music and dancing was taking place.

The heavens opened, so sheltering from the torrential rain at the bar, we swapped stories. Francis has spent a long time travelling in Australia and New Zealand, in between working. Sean has been to Nigeria outfitting cinemas. Bizarre. So we continued to get smashed, ending up in a little nightclub. Even the police turned up to have a drink inside.Cuba. The safest place in the world.

Francis told us of the reaction he had with his alternative Cuban t-shirt. Wherever you are, there is always a picture of Che Guevara and his face can be seen on everything from mugs to postcards to t-shirts. Francis had Fidel Castro on his shirt the previous night, and received some awkward looks from the locals and some disgruntled comments from some Norwegian ladies. He then had to explain irony to them. The Norwegians, not the locals.

When we ran out of money – the price of a beer is the same everywhere, even in a club ($1.50CUC) – and liver capacity, it was time to roll home. I have to apologise to the boys for leaving so abruptly but I had to go before my legs failed.

Next day, with a royal hangover we packed our bags with our clean clothes (Yaniesy had a friend do our laundry for $6CUC) and we pointed the Peugeot in the direction of Sancti Spiritus.

Sancti Spiritus

Yaniesy had reserved a room for us with a contact there and we parked up the car nearby to continue on foot to find the Casa. We knocked on the door of what we thought was the guesthouse to be met by an old man in his humble abode. He invited us in while he went to the back of his home to find the address we were looking for. On his whitewashed walls were sepia pictures of himself, his family and in the corner of the sparsely furnished room his wheelchair folded against the wall. Pointing us in the right direction he told us to take care crossing the busy road at the bottom of the street. I almost cried.

At the actual Casa, the owner was waiting for us and opened her door with some string to save her having to come down the stairs to open it by hand. In truth, she could have used the exercise. She hadn’t skipped on her rice and beans.

Again, a clean room with solid furniture and good shower. Outside was a little terrace where we sat and wrote at night.

Taking the car into town to find somewhere safe to park it, and old gent jumped in front of us. Excitedly he instructed us to go back to the Casa. After much discussion he showed us a little piece of paper with our names and the number of the car. He had been posted by our Casa owner to direct us to the house on our arrival in town. Marvellous. Eventually he succumbed to letting us park the car and his friend guarded our car overnight for the princely sum of $2CUC.

Heading out for an exploratory tour we encountered an old man pushing his bike into the town centre. He walked along beside us chatting about his time in Angola fighting for the Cuban Army. Merlyn’s dad had also been involved in this campaign, spending 4 years in Africa. This old chap had been there for 2. A forgotten escapade of Cuba’s history in many ways. The soles of his shoes flapped while he walked abreast of us. We gave him a $1CUC note and he thanked us for permitting him to have a good meal tonight. For the 2^nd time I nearly cried. He had the most expressive face I had seen. One regret from our time in Cuba was that we should have taken photographs of the people we met. Their faces told many tales, even if I could not understand their Spanish.

Apart from the people the most memorable part of Sancti Spiritus was a little contemporary art gallery in the pedestrian area. Free to enter, the minds of the artists were also free, even through they could not leave Cuba. Thought provoking and inspiring in equal measure, it was a little jewel.

Santa Clara

Again we had our accommodation arranged for us by our previous hosts. This time it was with Rolando and Adelaide. He is an engineer, she a doctor. Adelaide continues to work as both a hotelier and in medicine, Rolando seems consigned to his fate as a B&B owner. More than a little disillusioned with the state, he still keeps his engineering texts next to his books on Fidel and Cuba. One book he has is the same as which I used at University (Shigley is the author, for you engineering fans out there).

He was proud to show the book (Papillon) that he loaned to a Sky News presenter (forgotten his name as I don’t have Sky at home, only council TV) which the presenter signed and returned to him once back in England. I left him one of my books as a little thank you, although it was not in the same class as the other works he had. With the restricted genre Rolando has access to, he seemed mildly pleased.

Overshadowing Rolando’s library was his array of soaps. Soap is a valuable commodity in Cuba. Many times people in the street asked us for it (they were not French or from Paisley, obviously).   

Having a drink in one of the local bars at night we saw the differences between the young and the old in Cuba. One youngster with his silver belt-buckle emblazoned with ‘Rich’, and two lads who would periodically step outside to swig from their half bottle of rum while the band played in the corner, combined age: 406. There were 5 in the group.

Touring Santa Clara that first day we were looking for somewhere to grab a bite to eat. We followed the stream of people munching pizza to find a little outlet. Each round molten (these were the same temperature as lava) snack was $7MN or 25 Euro cents. As V and I approached an old lady grabbed my arm and gave me an imploring look. She had teeth like Shane McGowan but again the most open of faces. While we queued we saw the two girls we had picked up as hitchhikers into Santa Clara. They smiled and said hello. So for $1CUC we bought 3 cheese and ham pizzas. The third we gave to the old lady and her face was worth 1000 times the cost. I didn’t look after she took hold of the pizza, lost her fingerprints and received 2^nd degree burns from the dripping nuclear cheese. What was needed was an asbestos mitt from NASA, not the wafer thin piece of tissue in which the pizza was actually given.
It is the thought that counts.

We wandered up to the spot where Che Guevara and his merry men derailed an armoured train during the fight for independence. We then took a stroll to his monument, the shrine where his remains are buried and then to a statue of the man himself stacked with symbolism.

Rolando gave us some MN coins adored with the famous face of the man himself.

Day 2 in Santa Clara we headed to the sugar museum just out of town. The machinery is non-functioning and stands as a monument to the drive to mechanise the all important Cuban sugar industry in the early and mid part of the 20^th century. Most of the equipment was constructed in the US, ironically.

We arrived just before 12.00pm and I thought that with lunch approaching the lady would be a little dismissive. On the contrary, she gave us a personalised tour, pausing while V translated her Spanish to English for me. She had a genuine interest and knowledge of all the now defunct plant. She explained how the raw newly harvested cane arrived by train. The content of the wagons were tipped onto a conveyer belt where the product was ground, mixed with water to recover more of the sugar, separated into molasses, dehydrated in large towers and the husks conveyed to and used for fuel in a boiler which provided the steam for the whole process. All the time her little girl was hand-in-hand. Meanwhile a couple of workers chipped off decaying material and sploshed on paint in a vain attempt to halt the decay. A bit like Kuito but without the paint.

Another group arrived and our guide asked us to wait for a few moments whilst she attended to them. Then she gathered us all together which was the most memorable event of my time in Cuba. The museum still has a fully functioning 1916 built steam locomotive. Capable of a mighty 19km/h and operating at 60psi, we stopped traffic (one guy parked up at the crossing when he saw us, got out and took photos) as we trundled through to Remedio to drop off the group for lunch. On the return journey, V and I rode on the engine. I even had a go tooting the whistle. The stretch limo-taxi Lada that passed on the nearby road could not compete.

They wouldn’t let me touch the business parts, which was probably wise. This embodied Cuba for me. People who loved their job, went out of their way to make you feel welcome and kept the equipment running with what they had (there were valves from B&Q/ Leroy Merlin on the gauges which are the same as those beneath your sink).

On a high we took the car to the Cayo Santa Maria, an archipelago of islands joined by bridges. Stunning scenery, deserted roads we attempted to seek out the only beach you could reach for free (according to our guide books). We crossed a few lost tourists searching for this Holy Grail. It appears the hotel chains severed the access to increase their custom. At one intersection we discussed options with an elderly couple (coincidently the same that we had destroyed their butterfly photograph) and they decided to follow us. Into a military base. The looks we gained from the guards as the two cars simultaneously 3-point turned were priceless. The wheels almost came off the Peugeot as I harried the car along the rock strewn dirt tracks away from the camp.

So we succumbed to consumerism and entered through one of the hotels. The beach was talcum-powder perfect, the restaurant/ bar unimposing on the scenery. Unfortunately the food, service and atmosphere was polar opposite from our time in Cuba. With the rush to embrace tourism there is a burgeoning ‘them and us’ attitude between the tourists and those in the trade. We had tried to reserve a room there for our last night in Cuba, but thankfully it was full. Of Germans. Again we had been lucky in our accommodation.

So back to Santa Clara, Rolando and Adelaide who were much more accommodating.

The following morning we thanked our hosts and took ‘three colours; blue’ (if you looked at the car it wasn’t all the same shade of matt blue) for our last trip.

We had a fair drive back to Havana to catch our plane to Mexico City, so we left plenty to spare in terms of time.

We picked up as many hitchhikers as we could. No soldiers though, as we had vetoed the military after we asked one for directions outside a prison when we were hopelessly lost. He had glanced up from his newspaper and said ‘you’re outside the prison’. Genius.

Anyone who has tried to return a hire car at an airport knows that this is about as difficult as finding a solution to the Middle East ‘predicament’. Try this in Cuba.

Again everyone we asked was more than helpful, even the policewoman when I went (deliberately) the wrong way up a one way street at the airport. I played the stupid tourist, both parts coming naturally.

So the 3 hour margin was consumed with fannying about trying to find where to leave the car.

So to memories of Cuba. A marvellous place in internal flux. Beautiful, courageous, educated, helpful people in a wondrous landscape.

How long it can keep out consumerism and growth is anyone’s guess. V thinks that the only way Cuba has remained in its present form is due to it being an island and not having any major reserve of natural minerals or oil. Besides Cuba is not a political threat, now that communism has fallen in the Soviet Union.

With communications changing, with a disenchanted youth that cannot see other countries (I asked Rolando if he had ever been to Mexico. He retorted ‘we’re Cuban, we cannot travel’) and the increasing presence of the Chinese, Cuba may be very different soon.

One main advantage of Cuba today is that you will cross few Americans (they are banned by their own government from travelling to the island).

On the other hand, if it was not for Fidel’s revolution, Cuba would be probably just be another corrupt tax-haven just like the Bahamas. Perhaps. Better for the population? Who knows?