The George LeClaire Memorial Post

See the shadow of "el colibrí" on the bucket?

Before scaling the burro path on Friday, I took a taxi to the top of the town, and walked along the road, which parallels the town only for a half mile before turning in different directions on either end. I´d hoped to get the vista shot there.

While that was a dead end, the next venture was not. It was hot, and I had to walk about a mile or so back into town, and I wasn´t looking forward to it. What to do? Cerveza usually helps figure it out. There just happened to be a place nearby. Nice little outdoor place behind tall walls. Ordered the old Cuzqueña Negra and lo and behold, as I sat there -- a hummingbird. Nigh on 8,000 feet up in the damn clouds, and there a hummingbird.

I only got the one shot. Being colorblind, I´m a little disadvantaged at telling whether everyone can clearly see the bird. It´s a little to the right and above the shadow outline. Hence, I´ll keep my eye out for anglers and bicyclists.

Hola Abancay

Abancay sits on the side of its own mountain, as seen from another mountain, with still another to the left and a range in the background.

Everything in Abancay is on a slope. I kept winding up on the south side of town, like water rolling to the lowest point. I´d say 80 percent of the townspeople live above the two main commerce avenues, and the rest below. Bad planning for the people above.

The city of supposedly 100,000 sits about 7,800 feet above sea level. So, tired of climbing streets, I climbed a burro path (yes, get it out of your system folks -- tos in his natural environment and all) as far as I could. That´s where I got the pic above.


Elisio clambers up a burro trail for lunch at home every day, and Friday probably didn´t eat as much as usual, after bumping into an anglo on the way.

Up this path, as I was admiring the view -- and catching a little breath, comes this kid scurrying like he´s done it. Elisio, 15, was on his way home from school and stopped to chat. He´s probably seen a couple of gringos up this way in his life, but not too many and fewer so good looking. Elisio was in colegio, which must be some equivalent of high school. Elisio asked where I was from, and if I had kids. He was pleased with the answer, and especially pleased to hear that "mi hijo vive en Irlanda." Elisio has three sisters and three brothers. Slipped him a couple soles for the chat, and off he went.


Prodding a couple of burros and horse uphill with her granddaughter, a spitfire is about to come around the corner.

On the way back down, which isn´t easy because there are no branches to grab -- it´s all cactus along the path, I ran into a woman and her grandma marching a horse and a couple of burros up the hill. I grabbed a quick pic before I could really see grandma. That didn´t stop grandma from just about jumping me. She got herself all wound up and gave me her finger-wagging best tongue-lashing. How dare I take a picture without paying. The more I smiled, the louder and faster the old lady got. The granddaughter was smiling and enjoying the scene -- about three miles from civilization on a dirt road some old lady reaming out an old anglo -- and I began to laugh. And the old lady grabbed me and pulled me over so my face could be closer to hers for the full effect. So I pull out a 50 centimos coin -- she grabs it and gives me some more. I gave another 40 centimos, laughing and protecting myself, and she grabs it and wags some more. She walked off bitching, and I walked off laughing.


Adobe bricks are pretty large -- about 18 inches long by 6 wide and 8 deep.

Just down the road a few yards, this fella turning adobe bricks to enhance the drying process, and a few of his mates all heard the ruckus and thought it quite amusing. But they weren´t going to say anything. They were building three houses at once and didn´t need the interruption. Quite a few of the houses in Abancay, especially beginning on the outskirts, were made of adobe.


Back in town, up pops the latest of about four parades I´ve run into -- the 75th anniversary of a girls school.

So, I´m walking along and suddenly there´s a din, which isn´t real unusual. A parade has commenced, and thrown traffic into a mess. I hang out a few minutes, and it´s all schoolgirls marching. I mosey towards the back and right as the parade passes and the crowd thins out is this blatant Anglo. So, I ask what this is all about == chances of him knowing are as good as my understanding an Abancay resident.

Well, he knows -- he´s Allen George, a doctor from Nebraska, married to a doctor from California, who together have been doing missionary medical work in this area for eight years, and he has two daughters in the school.

We followed the parade a while and chatted, and I met his daughters. I told him I personally knew two very high positioned newspaper people in Illinois who would like to offer help in some way to people they or friends of theirs knew could use the help. Well, I´ll be damned, but this doc, who spends most of his time in the villages outside Abancay while his wife works in the city, says their church mission supplies them with all they need, but thanks for the offer.

Manana: Cuzco, the Incan word for navel, because Cuzco was the navel of the world.

Back to Nazca

You really need to click on this pic and look at it in large format. It´s the Plaza de Armas in Nazca.
The town is in the middle of a desert, and the highest mountain on the left is pure sand.

It´s 10 a.m. Tuesday morning and Nazca´s Plaza de Armas is well attended. Every town has a variety of this plaza, and seats in the shade are hard to come by after noon. A little later, around 4 p.m., food vendors come out in droves. Mostly drinks, slurpee type things and ice cream. And tourists come out too, and take their pics and crank out some pretty prose just so they post the pics. It´s a cycle.


The aqueduct was built between 300 B.C. and 500 A.D., and is one of series that brings water to Nazca.

Went on a little tour, for $10, arranged by the Nazca hotel in which a guy who speaks no English takes a few foreigners out and explains how these aqueducts work. Lucky for us, a California woman, the shortest one in the picture, did a pretty good job of translating. Apparently, some folks who weren´t exactly Incan dug trenches from mountain water supplies to the town, and built these aqueducts maybe 100, 150 feet apart, all along the trenches, shored up a top to the trenches and then covered them back up. The aqueducts provide a means of evaporation from the water flowing through the trench, and this keeps the water flowing cleanly. And the size of the aqueducts relates to the height of the land at that site. Where the land was lower, the aqueduct was smaller, where the land rose, as here, the aqueduct had to be deeper. It´s either true or this Cali lady didn´t hablas a lick and was feeding us a line.


A planted, farmed field of cactus. It´s a kind of food I´ve yet to personally encounter.

First, I never knew Peru had a desert. But cactus farms? And they´re all over the place. They also grow oranges and cotton. Now, the big national quandary is whether to import chicken -- the demand is outgrowing the production of chicken, though I think anyone awake at 6 a.m. anywhere in Peru would find that hard to buy. Anyway, I think pollo (poi-yo) is so major a part of the diet down here, it´s become kind of the national dish/animal, and importing it is causing discomfort. I´ll update when the strikes break out.

Nazca to Abancay

The three main forms of personal transportation in Peru -- all lined up. The big old American power car. The tiny, largely Japanese and Korean compact and the often motorized bike-cart.

Took a 10-hour bus ride from Nazca to Abancay. As the crow flies, the distance can´t be more than 175 miles. And no, we didn´t average 17 mph -- we drove hundreds of switchbacks, though, the winding mountain roads where you´re basically doing U-turns every quarter to a half mile or so. Nazca is about 1,500 feet above sea level -- Abancay is 7,800.

So we drove up, up, up, and up some more. Started out at 6:30 p.m., didn´t get in 4:30 a.m. A hot, smelly trip in a bus definitely not built for anyone over 5 foot 6. Didn´t really get more than a solid hour of sleep before a cramp set in. Tough sledding.

At the Abancay bus station, I get a taxi, and tell the guy -- una hotel, algo barato, pero no muy barato. Something cheap, but not too cheap. He drives three blocks, and pulls up to a joint. I pay him, and go in. Eight soles. Eight soles for a room. That´s maybe $2.65. Yet, even in Peru, you get what you pay for. It was a room, with a bed, sheets, blanket and overhead light. About 10 x 6. That was it. Nada mas. Anyway, I was wrecked, so I took it four four hours, just to get some shuteye. Found a place later, with bathroom and decent shower for 30 soles. About $10 a night.

Guillermo, the barber of Nazca, gave me the old No. 4 on top, No. 2 on back and sides.

Once in a while, like with that taxi driver, I get the feeling I´m being jobbed because I´m a foreigner and don´t know any better. This hack charged me two soles for the trip, which is about four blocks. I bet most residents in Abancay would have slapped the guy. For me, however, one sole is 33 cents. He needs it more than me, and there´s not much point in arguing over pennies.

Guillermo, above, also jobbed me. I saw two hombres in a row give him cinco soles for more of a style cut than my buzz job. He asked me for 10, after, of course, at least putting in about two minutes of snipping air behind my head just for appearances´ sake. Usually, the best way to avoid any problem is to ask beforehand how much something is. If you accept, everybody´s happy. If you shake your head, or slip a wry smile, or even laugh, and say, demasiado, most folks are quite willing to bargain. With Guillermo, I asked beforehand, but he kept talking, put me in the chair and wrapped the old smock around, and never gave me an answer. When he said 10, I raised my eyebrows in mock horror. He shook his head, no, no, ocho. Ocho soles. So, the every buck was worth paying just to watch and learn.

Fragments

This is the best I could do in Pisco. I really don´t get how photographers do it all the time (I think the fact that it´s breaking likely helps). I felt like I was intruding, taking advantage of their misery. So I tried to be inconspicuous -- which, added to my ineptitude with a camera, amounts to so-so pics. Remember -- you can enlarge pics by clicking on them.

A Peruan custom when walking: One person puts his/her right hand on the other person´s left shoulder, so they walk side by side. It's mostly men who do this, about 3-4 pairs of men to every pair of women who do it, and mostly it's the younger person with the hand on the shoulder.

Another different custom in the bars. At least in Ica, they give you an extra cup -- to pour your head (foam) into. There were three guys at one table Monday, and four at another. At each table, one of them would pour some beer into their one glass, 2-3 fingers´ worth, and drink it. He´d pour the foam into the cup, and pass the glass. The next guy would do the same. And on and on. I know a little something about imbibing, and never saw that before.

Cusqueno Negro is my favorite. Cristal is made in Peru and seems to be the national beer, but ít´s typical lager wuss beer. The Negro resembles the original bottled Guinness, only a bit sweet. It rocks. Four soles a liter -- about $1.33. I may stay here longer than expected.


Here´s a family who lives nearby, out at a bus stop on the very sparsely populated road from Ica to Nazca, waiting for papi or someone. Just another day for these folks, nothing special one way of the other.

The traffic? Chicago is like a bunch of old ladies in comparison. New Yorkers would be embarrassed. These folks are god damn crazy. And no one seems all that bothered by it. Most intersections don´t have any signs -- at all. The main drags have stop lights. The sidestreets? Pretty much every man for himself.

Car horns? All the goddamn time. ALL the time. It´s amazing. The beep if they're turning left. If they're turning right -- going straight, if it's Monday, Tuesday, day, night, doesn't matter.

And chickens. God damn chickens. Seems like someone on every block in every town has them -- and live roosters that crow every day for about two hours. Ít´s inescapable. And I no longer feel any regret, if I ever had one about eating chicken.


The bridge in Ica spans an unofficial garbage dump. It´s not uncommon, the same practice exists in Nazca, just down the road.

I walked over the bridge in Ica into the bad side of town. The bridge spans a dry canal -- filled with garbage. It´s disgusting. I kept going, just looking, and it was obviously a working class area. On the way back, on the bridge, a guy who looked bigger and tougher than any of the people I had seen on the bad side called to me. Sir, sir, he called. In very accented but understandble English, he said, it is danger there. It is not safe. I felt and must have looked a little confused and surprised. This badass, about 30, shrugged, and said, just to help sir. I said gracias, muchas gracias. He waved and took off.

Kids everywhere smile at me. Partially it´s my status as the lone white guy in the vicinity -- mostly though, I think it`s my sunburn. It´s been very clear and bright, and I only got some SPF 30 Tuesday. It´s hard to come by down here, as it´s not in high demand. And I´ve been wearing my shades all the time, so when kids see the bright red face -- with the white skin where the shades have been, they all laugh.

Overall, it´s a fantastic place. I´ve had shrimp and rice, pollo and rice. Helado -- ice cream. Cervaza. I haven´t seen any damn touristy thing yet. There are too many people to see and try to talk to ... and best of all, there are like thousands of Peruan woman. I have almost hurt myself several times either walking into traffic or light poles because I´m looking at a woman. I´m not ogling ... I´m just amazed. Studious. They´re muy hermosa.

Paracas, Pisco and beyond

The busy beachfront in Paracas. Unseen to the right is a boardwalk lined with restaurants. I picked a winner with a plate of arroz con camparones -- rice with some kind of saucy shrimp.

So, being an idiot in regards to la idioma and thus unequipped to dive into danger, I took my driver´s advice and stayed down the road in Paracas, another small coastal town, attached to a preserve with penguins (allegedly), birds and big fish.

Quite quaint, really, with fishing boats, gruff pescadores, which I believe is the word for fishermen, pelicans on the shore, birds dive-bombing for food in the bay, and restaurant workers hustling everyone who moves, trying to shoo them into their establishment.

Wound up playing futbol with three ninos, all once anos, or 11 years old. Alejandre, Jorge and Juan were energetic and as curious about an old white guy in their midst as they were unafraid. After a few attemots to show my affinity for futbol, Alejandre named me Ronaldino (a famous Brazilian soccer player) - which his friends found quite amusing. Alejandre then assigned me to portero, or goalie. After blocking three of this shots, and none of his two compadres, I explained that I maybe was Ronaldo, and he, in fact, was Ronaldino. His friends roared in assent. Ronaldino, I believe was younger than Ronaldo. And maybe not quite as good.

The outdoor market amid the ruins that is Pisco. Fresh-plucked chickens and other fresh, raw meats adorn the market.

This morning, I made my way back to Pisco. To get there, the taxi fare for the 20 km trip is 20 soles -- almost $7. Instead, I asked the first taxi driver to come by, collectivo? He obliged. Cuantos? Dos y cinquenta, he said. That's 2 soles and 50 centavos, not quite $1. I got in and we drove about 100 meters, where a dad and his 8ish daughter in school uniform got in. Another 100 meters and a teenage girl got in -- a car smaller than a Camry. About two miles down the road, the last passenger got in and then we hit town. So, if you are prepared to share, as most people in Peru seem to be, you'll pay less. You'll need it.

Only in imagination, and in Pisco, does the word devastation actually convey what grips the little town. More than three quarters of the town's buildings were leveled. Less than half have been rebuilt in the year since. There are no grocery stores -- only outdoor markets that would scare the hell out of any American health inspector. Still, the people are friendly, and patient. I asked people, as best I could, if I could take their picture for una sole. That´s one unit of Peruvian currency, about 33 cents. Everyone gladly obliged, and most seemed embarassed to take the sole.


Beans -- and strawberries and peas -- be the family business for these guys.

From Pisco to the Pan-American highway for 20 soles, nearly $7, and the stop for the bus to Ica. This was a most bizarre experience. People show up in drips and drabs, 2, 3 or 5 at a time, and wait for the next bus. One roars in about every 10 minutes and people swarm to the door. There are never as many seats open on the bus as there are people waiting. The first bus I never got near. The second, I ran with the crowd and got shut out. The third, I waited down the road a little and got very near the front -- mostly using by size and weight against the crowd -- and actually got on the bus, but there weren´t enough seats open. The fourth, I again waited, again could push anyone of these smaller folks I wanted, and got on. Four soles for the two-hour drive to Ica -- or about $1.33. Amazing.


This seemingly relaxed crowd turns into el toro and charges for the bus door when it stops.

Everybody does it -- it´s how things are done for the vast majority of Peruvians. As this is the main mode of transport for most folks here, because it´s cheap, it´s very busy. Can you believe, though, that the highway, which you almost can´t see, if the main highway the length of the town?

Manana: More about bus and transportation customs, and some about Ica. Holla.

A harsh reality

Different doesn't do justice to the void between life in Peru and in the U.S.

Alien would be much more like it, and damned if the commenters on newspaper sites wouldn't approve of the usage upgrade.

The depth of the poverty here can take your breath away. The likes of the clothes on half the people I passed this weekend have never been seen in any of the homes of anyone I've ever worked with. The poorer the families are, the more kids they have -- roaming the streets, dirty and smiling. It's the damnedest thing. The innocence and the ignorance of the kids seems to allow and/or enforce an air of happiness. They smile, they shout Hola to old white guys, they run away laughing.

Every one hustles for a sole -- or dollar or yen or whatever. Kids work, old people work, everyone -- everywhere. One 50ish guy, who must have come late to the game -- stood between lanes at a busy intersection in downtown Lima flogging Q-tips. I swear. Old people sell fresh squeezed orange juice, belts, CDs, chips, canday, whatever, on every corner in town.

Taking the bus from Lima down to Pisco was fascinating, but I think only because of my time at a daily newspaper -- and dealing remotely almost daily with some aspect of the seamy underside of life. Otherwise, I can't see how anyone would see how these folks live and not cry. Flat out destitution -- and worse, less hope for improvement than any poor folk in America.

Pisco, a small coastal town a couple hours south of Lima, was leveled by an earthquake 8-15-08. Their subsistence level truly would be alien to anyone in America. Anyone. Rubble everywhere. Stray dogs everywhere. Hope nowhere. Still, they go on as best they can, because they have no choice.

My cab driver, who took me from the bus stop about 6 miles to Pisco for 6 soles, or $2, gave me a little tour of Pisco. He introduced himself and showed me pictures of his little darlings. When I showed him mine, he begged me not to stay in Pisco -- no seguro, no seguro -- he said. Not safe. This guy's own house was leveled, and he's worried about me. Go figure.

Anyway, manana we move on to Ica, an oasis town in the desert of Peru. Who knew Peru has a desert? And apparently it's the driest on Earth. I also hope to find a machine I can upload some photos into. Holla

Touchdown in Lima

My hotel, on the Plaza San Martin, is called the Grand Bolivar.

The emergence from Jorge Chavez International Airport into life in Lima, Peru, comes with one definitive statement: Everything here is different.

From the hoards of taxi drivers, bus touts and energetic money-grubbers beseiging newly arrived passengers, through smog-filled streets and past gun-turreted factories, the message amplifies. This is a wholly different world.

Excluding tourists, I don't think I've seen a person taller than 5 foot 9. The disparity in wealth weighs in clearly. The wealthy, fewer in number, flaunt their material status. The poor, much, much greater in number, scam, strive and steal anything and everywhere.

I´ve been warned four times today -- by a waitress, by a clerk in photo shop (no Internet cafes have machines that can take a memory card; I had to copy pics to a disc), by a cop and by a bartender -- to hold onto the camera that I had placed in front of me for less than a minute.

Yet this city has its upside -- most people stay up late and on Sabado morning -- nothing is open till 10 a.m. After that, the streets downtown fill up rapidly.


After flashing several smiles, and showing her ability to read people by switching to English without my ever saying a word, Elena sold me a little fabric lapel pin of an Inca couple for un sole (about 33 cents) -- and earned an extra sole for this pose.

The "I still got it -- even in Espanol" moment of the day: On the Plaza de Armas, I was approached by four women about 20 years old in uniforms, somewhat resembling flight attendants, who were surveying turistas for a semi-state agency. After being caught off-guard by my stunted Espanol, one of them asked me to try writing my answers on their sheet. Question 1 was nationality. Question 2 was the name of the airline one arrived on, and a couple of other similar items followed. Then they asked what attraction brought one here: Macchu Piccu, Cordillero Blanco, Lake Titicaca, or other. Naturally, I selected other -- and two looked at each other questioningly. I wrote las mujeres de Peru and I swear two of these dark-skinned lovelies blushed beet red. They all laughed and asked to document the surveyee.


This young woman was selected by her survey-crew peers to pose with the tall, ghostly guy with the exquisite wardrobe choice.

Manana: El autobus a Pisco, a small coastal town devastated by earthquake a couple of years ago.