The Clash

Cusco. I know a small handful of people who have been there before, and all came back raving about it. Naturally then, I had to see it all for myself.

It's a beautiful city. It's also full of bars specifically opened for tourists, and its streets are full of people trying to sell you this or that, trying to convince you to go on their tour of the Sacred Valley, trying to get you to eat at their restaurant. Cusco is the stepping-off point for Machu Picchu, so it is used to tourists. Lots and lots of them. At times it almost seems as though it is set up specifically for them. On our days there, we spent a good deal of time wandering here and there, trying to get an understanding of Cusco that went beyond its tourist facade.

We had varying levels of success at different times. At one point we managed to find a great market that was so "authentic" and "local" that it made us both ill, Oliver violently so. (Does it sound like I'm complaining? I'm not! I swear!)

In all our walks, I kept seeing a common theme, and it sort of defined Peru (and later Bolivia) for me: the great clash of civilizations and ideas. Bear with me here. Cusco was the capital of the great Inca Empire, an empire the people of Peru still very much associate with themselves today. When they were Incas, the people of Cusco sat at the very center of (and controlled) an empire that passes through several of today's countries. When the Spanish came in the 1500s, they destroyed that empire and went about converting the people from heathens to Christians. The Spanish even went so far as to tear down the greatest Inca temple of them all and use the stones to build the foundations of a great church. The church still stands today, and the Inca stones at its base can still be seen. Isn't that what the entire world is? Aren't we all a jumble of clashing cultures? Of beliefs and traditions layered over older beliefs and traditions?

(Inca stonework overlooking Franciscan courtyard)

Cusco was beautiful to me because the clash was so obvious - the people have a mix of Indian and Spanish blood in their veins, their streets are a mixture of Inca stonework and Spanish colonial architecture. And the clashing isn't over; it's just taken a new form. Hungry for a Big Mac? You can get one at the McDonald's in Plaza de Armas.

Xs on the Map

¨Don´t go there,¨ said our friendly host at the guest house in Lima. He had a map of downtown Lima on the table in front of us, and big sections were marked with black Xs.

I know why he was saying it - danger, right? South America, two wealthy looking gringos with a guide book and a camera... bad things can come of this in the wrong neighborhood. I appreciated his telling us this. At the same time though, I couldn´t help but wonder what those Xs really stood for. I mean, they obviously meant ¨dangerous neighborhood¨. But did they mean that all poor people are violent thieves? What if we wanted to go to those neighborhoods? If we did, how big a risk would we be running of being those naive tourists who think they can do anything because ¨hey, we´re on vacation! Everything is so ethnic and quaint here!¨

This is my first time since China traveling in a non European/caucasian North American place. I´d forgotten what it felt like to be the wealthy tourist. People come up to you constantly and ask you to buy this, buy that. Some ask for money. What do I do with the guilt that comes along with these things? Buy every alpaca doll that comes my way? Stuff myself with Peruvian breads and sweets? This trip so far, aside from being exciting and beautiful beyond belief, is a stark reminder that much of the world does not live the way I do. What am I going to do about that, ignore it?

A couple months before we left for our trip, Oliver and I went to go see a documentary called Oblivion. It was about the poor and desperately poor of Lima. One of the people featured was an older gentleman who ran a leather repair shop. He had lost everything in the hard times of the ´90s, and he actually broke down and cried when he talked about how he and his wife had been forced to rely on their children for support. Would you believe it, Oliver and I walked right past his shop in Lima! What are the odds? I had to go in and talk to him in my pitiful Spanish. An English translation for you (r amusement) : ´¨I´m sorry... I´m crazy. You... movie?¨When he smiled and said yes, I started beaming like an idiot. ¨I... New York. You... very good! I saw... in New York!¨I wish I could have appropriately conveyed to him how much I respected him, how it was his strength and not the hardship that showed so clearly on the screen.

I hope at least he was able to go home that night with a good story to tell his wife. ¨These two New Yorkers came into the shop today... I´m famous!¨


(Editor´s note... no pictures now - too difficult to upload here. I might come back and add them once I come home. I´ll let you know when I do, because I think the pictures will really add to the stories!)

Here!

No photos yet, but we're in Lima. We took a taxi from the airport to our guest house last night, and drove along the Pacific Ocean for a few minutes. Don't ask me why, but I suddenly felt like I was completely connected with every single person in the world. I pictured all the different versions of the Pacific Coast - Japan, California, Australia, Mexico, Korea, etc. ... It felt like my little spot in Lima was one moving part of the whole, that we were all moving together toward the same place.

Ready for vacation

Wiped. Knackered. Beat. Dead. Kaput. (And surrounded by disorganized filth.)

Soooooo ready for three weeks of regeneration.

Off to South America! I'd like to post occasionally, but I don't know how much access I'll have to the internet. We'll see, I guess.

Wheeeeeee!

7 More Days

A week from today, we'll be on a plane, headed south to Lima. I've been brushing up on my high school Spanish (see image above), we've both gotten prescription altitude medication, a water filter was purchased... it's going to be great.

3 weeks. Peru and Bolivia. The Andes Mountains. Machu Picchu. Lake Titicaca (yes yes, Titicaca. Go ahead and laugh. I certainly have).

Can't wait to fumble around with a foreign language. Look totally out of place among the locals. Eat "strange" things for breakfast from some corner food stall. Gasp for breath at those ridiculous altitudes.

I have to wonder what he thinks of us now

About a year ago, Oliver cashed in some frequent flier miles for magazine subscriptions. He was really proud of himself. "Alli," he said. "I got us three great subscriptions - The Economist, New York Magazine, and Time Out New York."

"Time Out New York?" I replied. "That's great! We'll be so tuned in to what's going on..."

"Yes," he replied. "Out Magazine."

"Wait wait wait... did you say Out or Time Out New York?"

"They're the same thing, right?"

"No, they're not." (Disappointed head shake) "One is a guide to New York City, and the other is a fashion and culture magazine for gay men."

"Oh."

Would life be as fun if Oliver spoke and understood English flawlessly?

So it wasn't planned, but it turned out well. Out was a good magazine, and the unexpected subscription gave me the chance to see inside a demographic that I'm not always so tuned in to. Then June came along, and we moved. Two months passed and we still had not gotten around to transferring our subscriptions. Had they run out? Eh, we'd think about that later.

"Later" came tonight, when Oliver got an email from our old landlord, Bill. Bill is a nice guy, if a little shady. He's now living in the apartment we rented from him last year, and he wrote Oliver to let him know that we have some magazines waiting for us.

Oh yeah. About those. Um...

That's a first...

I was sitting on a park bench the other day, eating my lunch. Nothing exciting, just peanut butter and jelly. It was good jelly though - my mom's rhubarb apricot.

I was sort of gazing off into space at one point, thinking about something like "ooh, I'm in the mood for a maple yogurt" or "why are my legs so white? It's the middle of the summer," when a flapping noise and a brush of feathers against my skin jolted me back to reality. Good lord, I had just been attacked by a sparrow.

Maybe "attacked" is a strong word. Maybe it was more like a breaking and entering, or a purse snatching. Facts are facts though - the bird blitzed past me and grabbed a piece of sandwich out of my hand. Guerilla style too, not a shy, hesitant, "oh, are you offering that to me? Maybe I'll have a little bite..."

In the lunch hours since, I've noticed little gangs of sparrows gathering around me whenever I eat. Dang.