small words, big world

Arriving at a bus terminal at night is inevitably a bad start to visiting a new city.  In Moquegua, this was compounded by a plaza of protesters blaring their message over loud speakers, an hour-long search for a decent and reasonable hotel room, and a taxi-ride to a suburb where the 3 specialty restaurants were all closed for the night at 8pm. Things started to look up when we settled for a pizzeria and looked at its pisco list. After a brief question, the host was discussing the virtues of Norvill pisco and cracked open a new bottle for us to make chilcanos.

      Chilcano Recipe

• mix equal parts pisco and sprite (or kola real lemon-lime)
• garnish with a slice of lime

Pisco sours may be the national drink of Peru, but in Moquegua the simple chilcano is the mixed drink of choice. Drinking pisco straight is for drinking professionals who enjoy the burn (and despite what Adam’s Mom thinks we aren’t that bad.) Pisco sours are a tasty cocktail but overwhelm the flavor of the pisco and might as well be made with vodka. Chilcanos are the perfect balance tempering but still allowing the pisco’s aroma and flavor to dominate the drink. Tasting the pisco is crucial in this town which is home to 66 competing bodegas each producing at least 2 varieties of the spirit either blends or from specific grapes.

In daylight, the following morning, we started visiting bodegas along the “Ruta del Pisco.” We walked to the 1st and oldest bodega in town, only a few blocks from the main plaza and after persistent banging on the door were rewarded with a genial tour and tastings of their pisco, cognac and port (which we hear is recommended for pregnant women). They were very happy to learn that we had tried their pisco at the pizzeria the night before. To visit another bodega, we hopped in a taxi and it all went uphill from there as our friendly driver extolled the virtues of Moquegua’s avocados, honey, piscos, and fried guinea pig.

Two bodegas later, as we waited for our lunch (and Cara said a prayer for a previous beloved pet), we delayed our imminent departure by another night much to the pleasure of our taxi turned private car driver. The goal of our afternoon was to visit Biondi, the most reknowned distiller in Peru yet still a rather small operation. The highlight was sitting around a picnic table  with the owner of Bodega Zapata and his friends where we joined in their after lunch drink and chatted about pisco, politics, and peaceful Moquegua.

The next morning, we managed to move on to Chile whose national drink is also the pisco sour.

Like most of our experiences in Peru, our Semana Santa (Holy Week) revolved around food. We found two copies of the holy week schedule – one at the tourist information office where we scribbled down a list of dates and times. The other was posted at the cathedral but disappeared after Monday. Instead, we relied on changing traffic patterns and vendors pushing snack carts to seek out the daily processions. These carts begin and end each procession, selling their candy and chocolate-dipped apples, grapes, and strawberries by candlelight and shouting “Manzanas!” (Apples)

Thursday night, there are plenty of apple carts but no procession. As darkness falls, new vendors set up picnic tables and grills surrounded by stools. Over wood fires, they cook skewers of beef heart and a tripe-intestine-potato mixture. For the less adventurous (i.e. Cara), carts of noodles, fried chicken and french fries are also nearby. To wash it all down, steaming cups of ponche are served with an optional shot of anise liquor, in spite of the city-wide dry proclamation for the holiday. The entire population seemed to flood the shut-down streets alternating between eating and streaming through the open doors of the area churches until after midnight.

As we were forewarned, Friday was dead. Most restaurants including our standbys were closed. But it was worth looking for one that was open just to enjoy Friday’s specialties, chupe de camarones (a rich shrimp soup) and other seafood-intensive dishes on this meat-free day. The one solemn procession was the only sign of life on this mournful day.

Saturday, life was back to normal in Arequipa. Reminding us of home, Saturday night, the lines at the candy shops were out the door filled with parents buying last-minute chocolate bunnies and eggs. We decided to wait until Sunday to get our chocolate fix.

We did not wake up for the five o’clock burning of Judas in effigy, though Adam grunted at the accompanying fireworks. Fortunately, they serve Sopa de Pascua (Easter Soup)  all Sunday long. When we ordered the soup, we were given the option of 3 meats or 1 – which we were thought were more than sufficient until our hostess boasted to us that she had 5. After our soup, we rounded off our Easter celebration by attending the resurrection bull fight. But we were too full to eat any of the food offered there.

In Pittsburgh, we cook almost every night, but in our first week in Peru it was hard to imagine cooking dinner that was more worthwhile than going out to a restaurant. Then we visited Arequipa’s main market. Now we aim to cook at least once a week.

After trying alpaca steaks at restaurants around town, we wanted to try cooking it ourselves but first we needed to find the raw meat. Overwhelmed in the beef section, we confused one of the butchers by asking for alpaca and were kindly sent in the right direction. Leaving the beef behind, we pass the aisle of chicken livers, feet, breasts, beaks and you get the point. We pass the pork aisle with its giant loins waiting to be sliced. We walk very quickly by the aisles of innards, especially creeped out by the staring heads. Finally, we reach an aisle with one manned stall and a small hand-written sign that says “carne de alpaca”. Raw meat sits on the counter but happily when we requests 2 filets, the lady reaches behind to fetch fresh meat from her fridge and slices it for us.

But meat is just one section of this market. Adam encourages us to get our veggies as far from the meat as possible – about 20 feet. We aren’t hard-pressed to find limes, tomatoes, onions and garlic – temporarily bypassing the Peruvian favorites of rocoto (very spicy “bell peppers”), choclo (giant mutant corn) and zapallo (an estranged relative of pumpkin) and oodles of other basic veggies. You might think potatoes would be grouped with these ordinary vegetables but in Peru, potatoes are a food group and deserve their own area of the market. They come in every color of the rainbow (but don’t buy the green ones), ranging in size from golf balls to baseballs, and flavor-sealed by dirt.

We find a reason to be glad of Spanish colonialism when we stumble on the aisles of cheese and olives. To help us decide between the vast array of options, the vendors proffer samples perched on toothpicks. An afternoon snack later, we walk away with some more goodies.

Lacking a mortar and pestle, we rely on the colorful array presented by one of the sauce magicians. We tell him we have 2 steaks. He fills up and hands us a little plastic baggie filled with some type of sauce. See? Magic.

Wishing we had brought a shopping bag, we balance all of our purchases for the 15-minute walk home and promptly put our alpaca meat in the fridge. Grocery shopping may be just as fun as cooking in Arequipa.

Some people go to the beach to swim and suntan. We go to the beach to eat fish, and in this case, look at birds.

After two hours of downhill slaloming from Arequipa, the ocean breezes of Mollendo are a delightful relief. On second glance, the run-down buildings in the off-season remind one of dilapidated New England beaches. However, instead of serving up paper plates of fried dough and lobster, there is cebiche. A stroll through the town market reveals the sights and smells of heaps of whole fish, mollusks, and octopus. Long before Arequipeñas fled the city for weekend getaways, these raw ingredients have been combined with lime juice, chili peppers, and onions to purse lips and fill stomachs.

While cebiche is enjoyed all along the 2,400 kilometers of Peruvian coastline, the Lagunas de Mejía are a rare source of fresh water sandwiched between the barren desert and the Pacific Ocean. The lagoons occupy a brief 7 kilometer stretch outside of Mollendo – which feels much longer when walking in the glaring sun under the watchful eye of turkey vultures. In the lagoons, hundreds of species of birds stop to mingle, waddle and wade in a migratory cycle up and down the continent.   Unfortunately, the same habitat that attracts flamingos and ducks also breed mosquitoes and other blood-sucking fiends.

Happily, the windy beach is always less than 500 feet away, and the hoards of crabs that litter the shoreline flee to their holes instead of biting us. A handful of fishermen dot the coast sneaking what fish they can alongside thousands of seabirds. Given the abundance of fish at the market, there’s clearly enough for both to coexist.

On Sundays, various restaurants around Arequipa set out signs saying: “Hoy Adobo” (Today Adobo). After brief investigation, we learn that the nearby suburb Cayma is THE place to enjoy this local specialty. A ten-minute taxi ride brings us to the main plaza of Cayma, a flowering park, surrounded by cafes and restaurants each accompanied by a bubbling cauldron nestled over a wood fire. Each restaurant is overflowing with patrons, so we are happy to have a recommendation from our hotel proprietor and head straight for Elsita’s.

Elsa stands outside her namesake restaurant doling out portions of the pork marinated in chicha and spices, clearly her secret recipe, then smothering the pieces of meat with a rich, earthy red sauce. This is adobo, arequipena style. We snag a table and dig in, sopping up the sauce with fresh bread. Next Sunday, we may try a different restaurant, but we can vouch for Elsita’s.

3 hours from Arequipa, through the harsh Peruvian altiplano where only vicuñas dare to tread, you reach Chivay, the gateway to the Colca Canyon. For the next 3 hours on the bus, the dirt road deteriorates, donkey traffic increases, and the canyon gets continually deeper until you reach Cabanaconde. Technically, buses can continue, but we never saw one do so.

The highlight of a visit to Cabanaconde is supposed to be leaving Cabanaconde to hike down 4,000 feet to Sangalle on the floor of the canyon. In March, the only hint of the forthcoming dry season is the giant cacti littering the landscape. Sangalle’s nickname, “The Oasis”, is not an inspiration as you climb down through the verdant landscape of thousands of blooming wildflowers overtaking the steep trail and cliff-side. After a brief break to swim in a natural pool at the base of the canyon, the only inspiration for climbing back to the top is not having to climb anymore (and a pisco sour.)

As it turned out, aside from the relief of finally summiting the canyon, the highlights of our weekend getaway were found in Cabanaconde, a village of 1300 people. The donkeys, cows, pigs, and dogs threaten to outnumber the inhabitants. After sunset when the stray dogs get riled up, folks drinking emoliente (medicinal tea) around the plaza sacrifice some liquid to launch at the dogs. Meanwhile boys play soccer on the other side of the plaza. Girls play volleyball down an alley. One lone boy drinks rum out of a bottle in the center of the commotion. Whether we’re joining the crowd drinking hot tea in the brisk night or taking an easy stroll to a nearby viewpoint – not that any stroll is easy at 11,000 feet – everyone greets us and helps us along our way.

There are 6 buses per day between Chivay and Cabanaconde, the border “cities” of the canyon, and not many more back to Arequipa. In addition, minivans ply the route in droves, dropping off gobs of tourists to admire the views and spy for giant Andean condors at viewpoints along the way.

From 11AM to 2PM on Sunday, a marathon high-jacked the only road into and out of the canyon, delaying 2 buses and countless minivans of day-trippers. We arrived at the bus terminal as the marathon was ending, giving us the fortuitous choice of boarding either delayed bus. The compatriots that we joined were not so happy, regularly starting choruses of “VAMOS!” (Let’s Go!) and stomping on the floor. We just relaxed with our sore legs and waited, happy to be off our feet and ready to get back to city life.

We’ve really settled into our new home in Arequipa.  Instead of renting an apartment here, we decided after very little arm-twisting to stay in a sweet little hostel with 6 spacious rooms. We wake up early in Arequipa as the natural sunlight starts filtering into our room at 6AM. Every morning, we enjoy coffee, bread, and fresh juice served on the upstairs terrace with views of the nearby neighborhood rooftops and the far away volcanoes. This morning, we spied on the lady across the street watering her plants and a man 4 rooftops away laying bricks to build up a new wall on his roof.
We follow breakfast by working for a few hours before heading out to one of the 7 nearby hole-in-the-wall restaurants within one block of the hostel for a set lunch menu. If we want something a little more interesting, we walk a little further afield to a cevicheria or one of the veggie restaurants (which serves seitan and tofu) or the mercado for food-court style dining.

By 3-4pm we finish with work and head out to enjoy our new city. Like everyone else, we inevitably spend some time sitting on a bench in the main plaza watching kids chase pigeons and admiring the grand architecture that flanks this central meeting place. We’ve also been knocking off the museums, colonial mansions, churches, and viewpoints one at a time. Our favorite afternoon jaunt so far was the museum devoted to displaying the well-preserved remains of the frozen Inca sacrificial children and artifacts found in the nearby mountaintops.

At twice the population of Pittsburgh, Arequipa doesn’t have quite as many big city amenities, but so far we have enjoyed numerous happy hours, shopping, wandering, and a night of absurd Spanish theater. Our google calendar is filling up with events found on Arequipa’s cultural website, siete esquinas.  Needless to say, our Spanish is improving. We also have plans to catch up on movies we missed this year from the hostels extensive collection of questionable DVDs, but so far we haven’t been willing to devote the requisite 2 hours at night.

Dinner is a fairly late affair here and we often have an afternoon empanada and coffee to hold us over till dinnertime. In addition to classic Peruvian cuisine, the restaurants in Arequipa are varied ranging from hotdog shops to pizzerias and pollerias (chickenerias) to chifas (chinese restaurants.) In a month, we won’t need to eat at the same restaurant for dinner twice. Of course, the most fun is when we stock up on ingredients at the market and make a dinner in the hostel kitchen. The potato selection here is to die for, and we were pleasantly surprised to find a wide variety of cheeses, olives, pastas, and fresh fruits and vegetables. We’re working up the courage to buy fresh alpaca meat at the market. Maybe we’ll start with alpaca-style soy product.

When you arrive in the town of Nazca, you are there to see the famous Nazca Lines, as featured in the latest Indiana Jones movie. Everybody in town can sell you a flight over the lines. Everybody also warns you not to eat breakfast the morning of your flight. Touts and tour agencies may tell a lot of lies, but this is not one of them. I don’t care if your hotel includes a continental breakfast, or if you’re really hungry. Do not eat breakfast. This is for your sake as much as your fellow travelers.

Around 9AM, you will board a plane that seats five people – barely. You will be given a map displaying the route the plane will take with the 13 figures that you are to look for. The pilot will also point out the plastic bags tucked behind every seat. The miniature plane will take off – barely – and begin its tortuous circling of the lines. When the pilot points out the first figure, it will be exciting. The plane will tilt and twirl to give both sides a beautiful panoramic view of the mysterious etched design. By the 2nd figure, you will be clutching your stomach. By the 13th figure, you will be praying for the end. If someone on your plane ate breakfast, you will be breathing through your mouth.

There are many theories regarding the origin of the Nazca Lines: fertility symbols, astrological mappings, religious rituals. They are a marvel of planning dating from between 200 BC and 700AD. And it’s pretty cool to see the designs of monkeys, lizards, and whales from above. But do me a favor and don’t eat breakfast.

On the way down in the airplane the tiny strip of land between the Andes and Pacific ocean is optimistically green on the topographical display. On the way down the Pan-American “highway” leaving Lima there are water towers that proclaim “Agua para todo” (water for everyone).

The swirling sand dunes are just about the only sign of life in most of Peru’s south western coast besides the buses and trucks that fly by regularly. Every 50 miles patches of green appear and inevitably a town clusters around the river flowing down from deep in the mountains or maybe from an oasis. The villages, towns, cities are as large as they can be without draining the water supply dry. In the drier streambeds people farm cactus and in the more verdant area they grow corn, sugar, and (barely) grapes.

In the south coast city of Ica, Peru, they stick to growing grapes. Along the sides of the road old women sell heaps of grapes and songs are written about the grape brandy Pisco. In the most rustic form the grapes are converted to red concoctions of varying strengths and sold in glass jugs in small convenience shops, bodegitas, with names like “mi amor”. A step up from that is the small bodega where grapes are brought in from a farm and off-loaded. In these “artesinal” wineries, the grapes are still crushed by foot and the equipment is made from rough-hewn wood. Lastly, we have the commercial bodega which thinks that foot-crushing is dirty and instead uses expensive machinery and giant barrels, making wine and Pisco to sell around Peru and the world.

The south coast of Peru is a harsh climate that has somehow managed to support sophisticated life for over 2000 years. We can see how they get by nowadays, but before they were able to make Pisco we aren’t quite sure how they did it. They built aqueducts that have been in use for 1200 years but until the Spaniards showed up 450 years ago they were stuck drinking fermented corn juice. We like it better now.

We leave for Peru in 1 month! Wooo!

In a new twist, we’re combining work and travel, sticking to one country and attempting to settle down there for upwards of 3 months. Expect stories of searching-for-apartment-woes, pisco sours, and bumpy roads.