Alice Newitt

Day 7: Cusco, in which I rest

A day spent lazily, a welcome change of pace after all of the travelling over the past few days. Following a run of days of moving from a to b, it was a relief to open my rucksack and not immediately close it again. It was also a joy to visit the supermarket close to the hotel to restock on bottled water.

I had been quick to discover that water management was going to one of the main themes and challenges of the trip. Since the tap water was not recommended for drinking or indeed for washing out a toothbrush, and it was recommended to drink vast quantities of water to ward off the altitude sickness that was always knocking at my door, buying, storing and carrying water was always a high priority. A side effect of all of this water consumption was an increased interest at any given time to the location of the nearest baños, which unfortunately was not always nearby. The previous evening, we’d disembarked from the train to be shuffled into a minibus with a quick ‘it’s a twohourdrive, doesanyoneneedthetoiletfirst? No? good letsgo’ as the doors slid shut and the driver fired up the engine. Something tells me that the phrase ‘when you’ve got to go, you’ve got to go’ doesn’t translate into Spanish.

Day 8: Cusco to Puno, in which I am impressed by a bus, less impressed by an ascent and receive a visitation from a furry friend.

Once again an early start, this time to catch the bus to Puno.

After a very positive experience with public buses during my last trip to South America, I had high expectations, and once again they were exceeded. The boarding process was orderly, with two gentleman taking our ‘hold’ luggage and an official checking our ‘hand baggage’ for… we didn’t know what. “Oh, they’re just checking that we are not carrying on guns in order to steal the bus,” our guide told us cheerfully.

After over seven hours aboard the bus without stopping (“it used to make stops but robbers would get on and take everyone’s possessions”), we finally descended into Puno and disembarked. After checking into the hotel, we set out to stretch our legs, which of course might climbing something, this time about a thousand steps up to a viewpoint. Once again everyone flattered me by telling me that it was just the altitude that was causing me to struggle, but truthfully I would have struggled to climb the equivalent of about twenty-five flights on my best day.

After the climb and descent, we explored the town, where the spirit of the guinea pig I had nibbled on previously returned in the form of a street-performer in order to inspire guilt in me.

Undeterred, I then joined the group for dinner and ate some alpaca, while watching a performance of traditional dances from the region, which varied from comical to rather frightening, but which were all deeply steeped in the complicated and fascinating history of this part of the world.