South America – Part 3: Peruvian Girls Are Easy

Hey everyone, welcome back. I’ve just hopped a military flight to the jungles of Bolivia but I’m a little behind in the story so we’re gonna jump in the DeLorean, fire up the Flux Capacitor and go back in time to resume the saga as I arrive in Cuenca, Ecuador. I’ll spare you the details for yet another arduous bus ride save for the misfortune I encountered when I disembarked. Upon retrieval of my bag from the luggage compartment, I was somewhat dismayed to find it lying in a pool of oily liquid. I won’t know exactly what this shit was until the test results come in from the lab but it smelled like some sort of fishy bodily fluids. My hypothesis is that a school of disgruntled, genetically mutated (due to the high volume of industrial pollutants dumped in the water supply) trout stowed away in the cargo hold of my bus and jerked off all over my bag, just to spite my North American impudence. My buddy Spencer’s sleeping bag (which I borrowed for the trip) served as a gigantic, cottony roll of Bounty and absorbed the brunt of it (sorry, Spence) but, rest assured, my bag mopped up its fair share, soaking through to the clothes contained within.

My eyes watered from the crapulent stench of my fetid, festering bag and children ran screaming for their mothers while indigenous plant species withered and died. Cab drivers actually refused my fares until one allowed me, after much pleading, to store my feculent luggage in the trunk and ride in the back seat.

Thusly, a great deal of my time in this wonderful city was spent scurrying from laundromat to drycleaner to try and remove the incapacitating odour. I was permitted a day or so in which to enjoy Cuenca’s splendours and had a great time just wandering around the plazas (all these cities’ activities seem to congregate at the plazas) admiring the views and, of course, indulging in food so cheap that it was, for all intents and purposes, mental. Took a quick daytrip to some monumentally under whelming Incan ruins (Ecuador is NOT the place to see ruins, people) and prepared for next mornings’ bus ride to the Club Med style resort town of Vilcabamba in the very south of the country.

That morning, just before departure, we were informed that there had been a rock slide and the highway was impassable, forcing me into another (seems like they happen every other day) trip-altering decision: take a seven hour detour to Vilcabamba or just fuck it and make a run for the border and start the Peruvian leg of the triathlon. The fact that the Vilcabamba ride would be spent in the company of two Israeli guys pretty much sealed the deal (no one likes Israelis) so instead I hopped the five-hour express for the disgusting border cesspool of Huaquillas. This truly was the beginning of a fantastic voyage, the likes of which even Coolio had never experienced.

I managed to endear myself to a Peruvian woman on the bus who promised to assist me in getting through immigration and safely into Peru. I made it through Ecuadorian customs without a hitch but when I went outside to catch up with my friend, she was jumping on a bus whose driver seemingly did not feel like waiting for Whitey. I gladly hopped aboard the next bus only to find its sole passengers to be two shifty 12 year old Peruvian kids, intent on ‘helping’ me across to Peru.

Immediately these punks aroused my suspicions as virtually no one legitimately wants to help you in these countries. At least not for free. Their English was decent and I’m sure it had assisted them in grifting many an unsuspecting Gringo. In retrospect, I probably should have told them to screw off but I must admit that hearing English was fairly enticing so I cautiously followed them, keeping my eyes peeled for any sign of impending danger. I was first led over a bridge across a river of garbage, thus officially entering Peru. The town on the other side made the downtown eastside look like Beverly Hills as I sifted through a layer of trash and held my nose, trying to locate the Peruvian customs office. Poultry and livestock roamed the streets with impunity and shady characters eyed me with malicious intent.

The two little kids stressed the importance of changing some currency and brought me to a sketchy Peruvian money exchanger who was offering well below the current rate but insisted my information was out of date, despite my guidebooks’ 2003 publication date. I told him to shove it and moved on the sketchy Peruvian money exchanger number 2. This guy offered a terrific rate, even higher than the bank! Fortunately, my friend Omar from Ecuador had schooled me in the ways of spotting counterfeit cash and when this fucker tried to pawn off fake soles (Peruvian bills) on me, I spotted the fraudulent currency and blew up in a rage, sending him sulking off to the next sucker.

Scum and Scummer eventually lead me to an ATM, attempting all the while to convince me to withdraw as much cash as possible. ‘You can’t get money in Lima.’ they told me. Riiiight, no money in the capital of 9 million people but this little trash-hole you call home is the place to acquire and carry lots of dough. These little punks were lying to me at every turn. After much confusion, I finally arrived at the Peruvian immigration office where the border officials informed me that my companions were ‘bad guys’ and inquired as to whether or not they had stolen anything from me. I’m surprised they didn’t have their pictures posted on the wall at the border.

For whatever reason, I ended up in a car driven by, of all people, their father (obviously in charge of the operation) who I was convinced was going to drive me into a field, rob me at gunpoint and leave me in my soiled underwear. I incurred no such fate but was offered the opportunity to laugh uproariously when the kids asked for a tip as compensation for all their troubles. ‘Tip? You’re lucky I don’t beat you both into viscous goo, you little cocksuckers. Better luck with the next Gringo,’ and I bounced out of the car, making haste for the bus station, my sights set on the 18 hour non-stop to Lima.

Within 10 minutes I was on my way, kicking back in the front seat on the upper deck of a two level bus. The enormous window lay directly before me like a big-screen TV and I likened the voyage to an 18 hour movie about the Peruvian landscape interrupted intermittently by similar buses screaming towards me at top speed in the same lane, only to swerve in avoidance at the last possible instant. To spice things up, we also ran over the occasional dog and were afforded a couple of brief intermissions to be served passable, if monotonous, meals. Overall not nearly the worst bus ride of my life although it would have been even better had we not been forced to cringe through Nicolas Cage hamming his way through ‘Snake Eyes’

My time in the Megalopolis of Lima proceeded as follows;

Bottom line; Lima is far too big and gross to spend any time in. I just wanted to get the hell out and was lucky enough to do so without having to spend the night there. Finally, 34 hours after leaving Cuenca, I had arrived at my destination, a touch on the sleepy side but none worse for wear.

I befriended an open-minded young American from Philly named Dave at the airport and we decided to pool our resources and room together for a while in Cusco. While out strolling that evening in search of some fine local cuisine, we made the acquaintance of a fellow Vancouverite named Adam and the Can-Am Triumvirate was formed. Our mission was clear; to search out and sample all the country had to offer in the ways of food, drink and female companionship. Our first order was dinner and after polishing off some delectable alpaca steaks, we sought to quench our mighty thirsts with a Peruvian Ale or two.

It was just prior to this that I had started to notice the effects of what I thought to be the much discussed and feared altitude sickness. My head was light, stomach was not cooperating and my hands were losing sensation. It was actually kind of cool, ‘Hey, look at me, I’ve got altitude sickness!!’ I would proclaim to passers-by. Oh you smug fucking bastard, if only you had the faintest inkling of the fate in store for you, you’d have shut your fat mouth pretty damn quickly. But the ignorant bliss continued for the time being.

After my second grande cervesa and fourth trip to the can, I began to deduce that the altitude was not he only culprit contributing to my malaise. Something I had consumed in my brief stopover in Lima had procreated in my stomach and was rapidly asserting itself as the dominant force in my G.I. tract. I called it a night, hoping a good 10 hours sleep would five my immune system ample time to defeat the invaders. Kids, thank your lucky stars I didn’t go to med school. At 2:30 I awoke atop presumably sweat-soaked sheets (although I won’t discount the probability that other bodily fluids were involved) and made a B-line for the bathroom. On this poor, unsuspecting, undeserving toilet was unleashed a sonic boom, the likes of which had not been heard since the mighty Krakatoa erupted so many years ago, levelling an entire island in the process.

Incredulous local seismologists stared perplexed at their chattering instruments, frantically debating over the origins of the violent blasts. Was the big one finally coming? Was this the signal of the end of Peruvian life as they knew it? Well, it nearly signalled the end of one young man’s life as I crawled back into bed 45 minutes later, begging the Inca Gods for a quick exit from my Earthly purgatory. Fortunately, my pleas fell on deaf ears and I was up bright and early (noonish) the next day and ready to resume the adventure.

Dave and I spent the better part of the day checking out some local museums and churches and I must say Cusco truly is an impressive city. Due to it being the most frequently visited tourist destination in South America, city officials really bend over backwards to keep it looking nice. The streets are clean, crime is low, the food is 5-star and the architecture is awe-inspiring. I would surely rate it among my top 5 all-time beautiful cities along with Inverness, Scotland, Brugges, Belgium, Hoi An, Vietnam, and Bath, England. There are a helluva lot of tourists, many of the elderly variety but it’s a small price to pay for such a pleasant experience. Make haste; visit now! Hell, move there, I doubt as if you’d regret it.

**Warning, the last few paragraphs of this chapter should not be read by mothers (especially mine) and small children. It gets a little blue and is probably more information than is necessary**

In the evening, we again convened with Adam and, as I had almost fully recuperated, we chose to indulge in the vaunted nightlife and try our luck with the senoritas. The second I set foot in the joint, a dyed-blonde, heavily made-up Peruvian sucking a lollipop at the bar caught my eye. ‘Oooh, she looks dirty’ I flippantly remarked to the boys. Rarely has so astute and prophetic a comment been uttered from your hero’s lips. Over the course of the next hour, frequent winks, nods, stares and ass-grabs from our blonde maiden friend indicated that my earlier diagnosis had been dead on. We salsa’ed up a storm and at around 3 she muttered, ‘Jou want come to my hotel?’ Inwardly I was saying no but the 7 or 8 rum n’ cokes were adamant that we accompany her. It would seem as if I were outnumbered. After assuring me that she was not, in fact, a prostitute, we went back to her place, yada, yada, yada, I left about an hour later. Slightly creepy was the fact that the whole time we yada yada’d, her sister was attempting to sleep in the next bed. Again, I had some reservations but the rum and cokes insisted it wasn’t a big deal. Hey, there’s power in numbers, you know?

Now, normally the story would conclude here and everyone would applaud the hero and close the book. In this case, that would be a mistake as the plot thickened on the way home. Three blocks from my hostel at five in the morning, another local girl was on her way to the same bar I had picked up at earlier. ‘Hey, where jou going?’

‘Uhhh, back to my hostel, it’s late’

‘Noooo, come to the bar’ Five minute conversations ensues.

‘Ok, honey, I’m going to my hostel now. You can go to the bar or you can come with me.’ (Hey, why not take a stab at it?)

‘Ok, I come wit jou. Bull’s-eye. If, in the future, I happen to comment that Peruvian girls are easy, don’t get all mad and bitch at me for stereotyping as I will forever have this night as corroborating evidence of this as well as the fact that I am, indeed, the man. Hail to the King, baby.

After about an hours sleep, I got up, endured some awkward morning after conversation (exponentially more awkward due to the language barrier), made my way to a waiting tour bus and embarked on a day trip to surrounding Incan ruins. I’ll spare you the descriptions other than to say that everything was spectacular and there was a lot of stair climbing in thin air on very little sleep. I packed ‘er in early that night in order to catch up on some much needed rest.

The next day would be my final in Cusco before setting out on the world-famous Inca Trail to Machu Picchu. Again I walked the city, dining at the local market for a pittance and absorbing more ruins and churches. I had made a date with Daniella (the first girl) that night for a little pre-trail lovin’ and she didn’t disappoint. In her defence, she was really sweet and if you wiped off the 8 pounds of whore makeup, she was actually quite pretty and we had some nice conversations about life in Peru and such.

Well, I’m going to cut the narrative here and save the gruelling trail for the next exciting instalment, ‘Inca-pacitated’ I swear, that damn trail near killed me. I hope you all tune in.

Hasta mañana,

-dj-