Canada to Patagonia at a Worrying Age

Cath taps an unpleasant aspect of the glorious country of Peru with her NCP car park comparison.

There are parts of Peru (particularly high in the Andes) that, in the way the queen is meant to smell of walnuts, Sven Goran Erikson of parma violets and Richard Branson of merde, smell undoubtedly of wee.

Cath is being charitable when she claims that the lack of public toilets is to blame. Cath, exactly how many public toilets have you seen in the whole of South America? Exactly. If this were the explanation, the whole continent would stink like the queen mother used to. And it doesn’t.

No the odour has another cause and I believe I was given an insight into it just over the border in Copacabana.

I was sitting by the dockside resting my piles when one of those colourful bowler-hatted ladies with voluminous skirts approached carrying a bag of lama wool the size of a wheelie bin.  She asked if I would keep an eye on her sizeable burden while she went off on some unexplained little errand.

She didn’t move far.  She went approximately 3 metres to position herself behind a temporarily unmanned ice-cream cart (where was the owner?). Once sure of the suitability of her spot she hitched up those brightly coloured layers of clothes, made a little adjustment and went for a number one directly in front of me, her copious micturate swirling around the wheels of the ice-cream cart.

This, I believe, is accepted behaviour high in the mountains and is the true reason why the entire region smells of the entry from Bouverie Street to Garden Lane.

Just felt the need to clear up that little mystery – in order not to unsettle delicate stomachs, I won’t describe the sights and smells in the aftermath of New Year’s Eve in one particular corner of Cusco (where Cath is now headed).

On other matters, I have given up on the idea of a flat in San Telmo and now live in digs in town.  Very nice they are.  Should contact be necessary (particularly new nephew news) I’m in room 108 of the Hotel Ailén.  This access number should get you through for 1p per min (0844 861 3232). Then you have to call the number you need. They take messages.

Today is Christopher’s 18th birthday.  I can only assume he is recovering from a late night out.  Happy birthday Chris, and emailed pictures from your new camera would be most welcome.

Happy Birthday to Pat, also, although I know she doesn’t read this.

Off to sort out more stuff. Love etc.

PS Thanks everyone for the emails with your phone numbers. In particular I would like to thank Nobody-at-All, as at least that person does not have a phone number.

Song of the day, Call Me Every Night, Jane Aire and the Belvederes

Slightly bitter, this is going to look, I’m afraid.

Up late to ring home (I really was knackered after two 3.30am starts in three nights). Lovely to talk to you all on that terrible line. Promise I’m all right despite what comes next.

Went out for a bite to eat at a place run by a Texan. He was very affable and all that, but it quickly became clear that this place is the centre of an expat community that centres around cheap property, an unspoken form of racism and (much) younger Peruvian wives. Also striking is a big mural in the main square rejecting the use of children by tourists for sexual abuse. I’ve seen this in other countries and it always indicates a sinister aspect to a place.

After lunch I went on a walk to Belen, famous as part of the background to Fitzcarraldo, a fantastic film by Herzog. The book describes the area as ‘an authentic slum town of the last century’ and ‘dirty but beautiful’. I’m afraid I can’t agree. It’s certainly an authentic 20th (19th?) century dirty slum. And that’s where it ends. It’s a steaming, miserable, disease-ridden pit, the sort that attracts paedophiles, religious fundamentalists and charity-workers in equal numbers. Of course some members of these three groups will be one and the same or generally interchangeable. The existence of a group called The Federation of Iquitos Drunks, westerners who do ‘good’ works for the children of the area, only served to worry me more. They may be a fantastic group of well-meaning types wishing to put something back into the community (probably are), but the name and publicity-conscious pronouncements set off something in me.

The other main gringo group here are the eco-hippies, who avert their eyes when they see a westerner such as me. Maybe they know more about the other groups of expats than I do, and as such their ignorance is understandable if they see me as part of that. However, I can’t help but be annoyed at the construct of hierarchical travelling that depends on your own particular level of discrimination starting from you (hippy, charity worker, religious nutter, wife marrier) and goes down in layers from there.

It’s not all bad. The locals are friendly, the town appears safe and it’s a good starting point for jungle journeys. However, I’ll have to see how tonight goes before I commit to anything. Assuming they don’t have Boxing Day here, I think I’ll get a flight to Lima sorted tomorrow. I think New Year will be best spent elsewhere…

Today’s song is Wonderboy by the Kinks. Dark, I know, but I feel this place calls for such a tune.

The Night

As I said, it’s not all bad. I was invited to Christmas Dinner by Jimmy, the hostel owner and got chatting to a Swedish guy about shamans and the like. He claimed to have seen the future (although he was scant on detail, when pushed) and reckoned that you need out of body experiences to find the real you. Disabled parrots crawled by.

Out for a pint at another gringo bar this evening, only to discover the people I’d been at dinner with, but they didn’t acknowledge me as I went to sit at the bar. More Peruvian women were hanging out with the white guys. A lad who’d tried to sell me a jungle tour the night before came to try again. Having failed he asked if I wanted any girls or drugs. I said I didn’t buy people and then he offered himself! I didn’t offer to top up his glass.

After he left, the owner of the bar came up to talk. Another old Texan who explained he was here for the pretty girls. As I sat there the minskirted bar girls would touch my arm or thigh or bum each time they passed. There were Peruvian owned bars not far away, but the gringos in those looked predatory at the least (to my now extremely prejudiced mind). I couldn’t face being identified as such, so I went home.

Boxing Day

Up early to see if I could get a flight. There was one in the afternoon or tomorrow morning. I decided to consider my options and went for breakfast at the first Texan bar (decent fruit salad and all that). Conversation among the expats on a neighbouring table turned to some bloke or another.

“Have you seen him today?”

“Saw him coming out of his apartment this morning with a Peruvian boy. I’ll say no more.”

“You don’t need to.”

So that made up my mind. I went to the airline office and bought a ticket to Lima for today. Perhaps I’m being unfair, but even the uncontroversial bits add up to something murky. As a final clincher on such matters, it should be noted that it’s not possible to reach Iquitos by road. I’m off.

This morning’s song is Jimmy Jazz by The Clash (alternative – We Gotta Get Out of This Place – The Animals). Next alternative – This Town, Elvis Costello, probably the most accurate one.

The rest of the day…

Paid my bill after the hostel woman had tried to overcharge me by 60%, oh how we laughed at her simple mistake. Picked up a mototaxi to get me to the airport. It was a white-knuckle ride and loads of fun. As the driver didn’t rip me off I tipped him 50% and felt good.

I checked in and all was right with the world as I’d gone for the expensive national carrier with no check-in queue. I’m acting the rich gringo at this point and very happy with myself. I had an hour to kill before going through, with another hour after that. Had a coffee and a sandwich and was politely pestered by a lad wanting to shine my jungle-dirty boots. I’d said no about four times, but he was so polite I eventually gave in for the ridiculous price of 15 pence.

He made a brilliant job of them, far better than the desultory effort in Bogota, and tried his best to understand my mangled Spanish throughout. He looked about 15 (could’ve been older) and had an apprentice in tow who got the simpler jobs and watched the master at work.

I was so impressed by this shiny and welcome aspect of Iquitos life that I gave him triple what he’d asked for, not caring about the next foreigner in my wake. It was the best tip I have ever given, and here’s why.

I went to go through, slightly late on account of the time and care he’d taken, but still fine for time. The guy at security wouldn’t let me through, however, as I hadn’t paid my departure tax – a detail the check in clerk had failed to mention. I went to where they’d indicated I needed to go to see a queue reminiscent of that for tickets when Chester hosted Supermac and the rest of the Newcastle team in the League Cup run. It went outside of the departure hall and much further beyond. I tried to get the LanPeru people to help me, but apart from agreeing it was ‘terrible’ they made it plain there was nothing they could do.

I got in the queue, sweating profusely in the sunshine and hoped. I got out my book to stem feelings of anxiety, but was haunted by the fact that I might have to stay in Iquitos another night. As I stood there, the shoe-shine boy appeared apparently indicating there might be a short cut, but it was plain there wasn’t. I indicated no intiendo and he disappeared off.

As I entered the departure hall again in the shuffling queue I could see another problem. The queue at security was now impossibly long and growing. If I was lucky I might get my departure tax stamp, but would not get through security anywhere near in time. My heart sank as the one woman at the tax counter answered the phone and dithered with change for the people ahead of me.

I looked forlornly at the security queue only to see the shoe-shine boy waving at me from the midst of it! This Angel of The Lord had been trying to tell me he had anticipated the problem and was standing in line for me! His apprentice was with me as I paid the stupid tax (why not include it the fare?) and raced with me to the other queue, which the Angel had timed to perfection. I cut in front of a group of gringos who no doubt thought I was in the habit of paying people to queue for me as I stuffed a few more soles into his hand. He skipped away happy, but I never got the picture I intended.

As I got through, they were waiting for me (I’d heard and couldn’t understand the announcements) and I was rushed onto the lovely first world plane.

I have gone into so much detail as I don’t want to leave myself or you with the impression that Iquitos was all bad. Good tipping and the kindness of strangers (ooh, I’ve come over all Blanche) got me where I am now. In an hotel of absolute faded grandeur (The Gran Hotel Bolivar) at the suggestion of my non-rip-off Lima cab driver, sitting on the balcony having had my complementary Pisco Sour and typing this, my lovely waiter having just announced that he is from Iquitos himself.

It’s great to be back in a big city with the need for a jacket and no mosquitoes. There’s hot water and a bath. I am now going to avail myself of these facilities. And United won 3-0. I love South America.