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October 5, 2003 Sunday Cuzco
The European architectural influence is evident.
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Arrived into Cuzco this morning, after flying over some of the most desolate stretch of mountain terrain I’ve ever seen, appearing completely barren, treeless, from 33,000 feet.
Save for a few areas of blue surfaced alpine lakes; I was peering down at a slightly textured, brown on brown, inhospitable landscape.
What I did notice when we stepped out of the plane was what is known as "rarified air".
Eleven thousand feet above sea level is rarified, indeed.
The city itself is large, over 300,000 inhabitants, houses and other nondescript structures layer the hillsides around the center which is incredibly beautiful.
Huge granite stone walls still stand along
the narrow cobble stoned streets.
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Although the Spanish conquistadors practically decimated the entire Incan people, architecture and culture, there are, thankfully, Incan remnants near the town center.
I am glad to report that the cowardly conquistadors were not entirely successful.
The Incan Spirit is alive and well here in Cuzco, thanks to the global tourist economy, with an insatiable diet for things ancient, mystical, and stunningly gorgeous ... not to mention brightly colorful and inexpensive.
Intercultural mixing is the order here, creating the mestizo, part Indian and part European heritage.
The women fascinate me. In addition to nearly all of them having the blackest, shiniest, longest, thickest hair braids I’ve ever seen, they also wear the best hats! Top hats. Round, tan colored, felt hats.
Flat-topped, brightly colored stitched hats,
with lime, orange and pink fringe.
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They sometimes wear an almost masculine tailored brown jacket, covering half way down their vibrantly colored full skirt, sometimes two or three skirts underneath, or a white petticoat. Or, instead of a coat, many of the women I saw wore several layers of sweaters topped by a flamboyantly colorful alpaca poncho, either transporting a child or whatever goods they had to sell, giving the women a hunchbacked appearance. This nifty baby carrying method was ubiquitous, even in the larger cities of Lima and Cuzco. It was rare to see a western-styled baby carrying backpack. I didn’t notice the babies minding their being jounced around like a side of beef. Although, often their dark skinned legs were bare with rubber-tire-fashioned sandals, I saw several wearing black or brown stockings with sturdy leather shoes.
Children, also wearing the traditional Peruvian attire, crowded around me today, several holding a puppy or a baby lamb, asking me to take their picture. As I didn’t have my camera with me, I gave them one solé each instead, the equivalent of about 35 cents. Guilt travels to the southern hemisphere.
Cuzco street
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Carla Woody, our intrepid leader, met us at the airport in Cuzco just outside the terminal, her beautiful, long red hair a welcome beacon after 28 hours of travel time for the weary waikis. After arriving at the El Dorado Hotel, that would be our base of operations for the next two weeks, she softly (and briefly) welcomed us to the beginning of our journey and then welcomed us further with a hot cup of coca tea. The lightly tinted tea, similar to green tea in both taste and color, would help us acclimate to the 11,000 feet altitude. Take a nap, she said. After drinking coca tea, I thought? No problem, as it turned out. My head hit the pillow and two seconds later I was deep in dreamland. We agreed to meet at noon for a light lunch and then we would be on our own in Cuzco to explore the rest of the afternoon.
After the nap ... I didn’t think I wanted to get up after my nap today - today? Is it still the day we arrived? It feels like I have been here a week already.
Katie, Paul, Jim and Karen
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My fellow Peruvian companions are a fascinating bunch, as would be expected given the nature of this trip. We range in age from twenty-one to eighty-three. Those two are women: grandmother (Katie) and granddaughter (Angela).Mother, Cindy, is the daughter-in-law of Katie. Three generations of women - here for their own unique reasons I am sure, but also sharing a parallel experience ... Cindy’s husband of over twenty years was Katie’s son and Angie’s father. He died of a brain tumor two years ago. There are four men, eight women, including Carla.Four members of the group: Carla, Al, his wife Marilyn and Cindy are returning waikis. Marilyn, our interpreter, arrived three weeks ago to hone her Spanish skills.
We meet with Don Americo tomorrow.
A personal glitch came up for me today, I felt herded by Carla to buy goods from Emma, an Italian, gray haired wisp of a woman with a hard-on to keep the coca plants industry alive.
Not for the illegal processing of cocaine, which she insists is a mere 5% of the what it’s "miraculous" benefits are in the coca leaf - everything from losing weight (healthfully) to a balanced circulatory and respiratory system, to increased energy and over all well being.
Emma
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She hammered out the biological and clinical breakdown in a well rehearsed thick Italian accent. As an anesthesiologist she is well aware of the chemical properties and disposition of the coca plant and is convinced with the proper land management and expertise, the coca plant could be the next global curative for everything that ails you. As she stuffed leaf after leaf in her mouth (between the teeth and gum, just like "tobakee") during her demonstration, she said you could eat, drink and even kiss with this big green wad of coca leaf (tinged with a tiny bit of what looked like a petrified lime) in her mouth. I wonder how well this would go over in America’s heartland.
As for my inner feelings - it is too soon to start writing about it. I did not appreciate Carla’s surprise "Amway" presentation, but I do get Emma sincerity. I have felt like this level of annoyance many times before in my life, like I have to firmly resist what I judge as a hard sell. Trust is at the center of it, I am sure. I did seize the opportunity to share my feelings with Carla who listened attentively, offered no explanation or defense and that was that. What did I expect her to do? Apologize?
It is late. I am tired and my roomie, Karen, a thirty-eight year old woman who lives just outside Prescott, should be coming back soon. More tomorrow.
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