Fiestas Patrias (Independence Day Celebrations)

You think July 4th is a big deal? Think again. Here in Peru, the whole month of July is devoted to patriotism and independence celebrations, with things ramping up toward July 28th, their independence day. Here in Peru, they take patriotism to a whole new level.

 Selling flags at an intersection

The most visible sign is the flags. The roofs of Lima are bedecked with flags, and temporary islands pop up in busy intersections to sell flags and stands. Street vendors move between cars during red lights selling flag pins, flag ribbons, small flags, big flags. Every district tries to out-flag and out-patriot the others, with billboards and posters in festive red and white carrying sanitized patriotic statements with the district mayor's name scrawled below. The flag fever is so complete here that in some districts, you can face a fine for not putting up a flag.

Flag display in the roundabout in Miraflores

There have been events scattered throughout the month, but the main event happens over the long weekend. (Because independence day falls on a Sunday, Monday is a national holiday.) There are showcases of dances from different regions of Peru, music, parades, pop-up bazaars, and TV extravaganzas. The president gives his State of the Union address on July 28th, and police and the military march in a parade. I have to say that it's probably the most impressive marching I've ever seen: legs straight out to ninety degrees, for all three miles of the parade. Everywhere Peruvians can be seen stuffing themselves with picarones, Peru's answer to Tiny Tim mini donuts.

The line for picarones in the Parque de la Amistad

And then there are the parties. Peruvians love any excuse for a party, and there is none better than Fiestas Patrias. Unfortunately, I was on antibiotics all weekend so I was not able to join in the fun, even in a reasonable and restrained manner. This made me a bit grumpy, and I found myself resenting the obnoxiously loud party at the neighbors'. I found myself reminiscing about the very sound-proof insulation in the U.S. as the music kept going until well past 4 AM at full volume.

Of course, that's not to say that all Peruvians go crazy and have wild parties. Plenty of families go to the park, throw some things on the grill, and are in bed by 10 o'clock. Now if only I lived next to those people...

Doctor's Visit

 For the past two weeks or so, my stomach has been really strange: a range of symptoms that come and go at random, becoming really bad and then suddenly clear up as if nothing were wrong. I tried all the normal remedies: over-the-counter meds, mint and ginger tea, and bland food, but my stomach was having none of it. The roller coaster of recovering and feeling bad all over again combined with two weeks of flavorless food has been pretty maddening, so finally I decided it was time to visit the doctor.

Clinics here in Peru are all walk-in and are extremely affordable. Health insurance doesn't enter the picture unless you have to be hospitalized. I went to an affordable but very reputable clinic, the Hospital de la Solidaridad, which despite the name is a clinic and not a hospital. 

The waiting area for the fourth floor clinics at the Hospital de la Solidaridad

Upon entering, I had to first stop at the information desk and tell them which specialty I wanted to see. Then the attendant gave me a slip with 'gastro' written on it and directed me to the caja to pay 9 soles (about $3.50) for the consultation. Then we walked up four flights of narrow stairs to reach the gastroenterology area. We were told to come back in two hours, as the doctor would not be arriving until then. 

When we came back at around 5, the common waiting room on the fourth floor was considerably emptier. The psychology, ophthalmology, and lung clinics are on the same floor, and I assume their doctors were in attendance while we were waiting. 

A tired patient waits for his turn in the now-empty waiting room

Finally, we were called in to the room. The doctor asked the routine questions, felt around my stomach, ordered tests, and prescribed medicine in record time. I was in and out in under five minutes. Jorge came with me for support and in case I didn't know a term, but my Spanish was up to the task. Diagnosis: most likely parasites, go down to the lab, and take these meds in the meantime to feel better.

The next stop was back to the caja on the first floor to pay for the tests. A total of three tests came to 20 soles, or around $8. I went to the lab (a closed-off cubicle right next to the street entrance) to ask about the details and get any supplies. Finally, to the attached pharmacy to pick up the medicine for another 20 soles. All in all, the entire visit cost me a little over $20. Of course, there are 'fancier' clinics that have fewer patients, a fresh coat of paint on the walls, and a less grim overall look, but these cost much more.

I can't say I'd fancy the thought of having to undergo any serious procedure here, but I think the clinic system works really well. This same visit in the US without health insurance would be astronomically expensive and out of the reach of most Americans. The downside is that doctors do not make much money here. In fact, there is a strike happening right now (in the middle of an H1N1 epidemic) to address the fact.

Overall, Peru for the win. Minus the fact that I probably got parasites from eating something down here.

Life in Lima Pt. 1: Life as an Outsider

I'm at a party with Jorge and a group of his friends, all Peruvians. I'm mostly following the conversation, at around 80%, when I work up the courage to throw in a comment. Everyone laughs, and I have no idea why what I just said is funny. I don't know if I'm turning red or even more pale, but I can feel the temperature in my cheeks changing and I stare at my glass. Unfortunately, this is not an isolated occurrence.

Living in a foreign country is hard. Everyone has heard of culture shock, maybe even has a friend living abroad who has recounted his or her moments of misery. However, somehow I thought that since I speak Spanish pretty well I was immune from this phenomenon. I don't know if everyone who goes abroad also secretly thinks this or if I am alone in this.

When I stepped onto the plane six months ago with my one-way ticket to South America, I was nervous, not sure what to expect, but mostly overwhelmed with excitement for the adventures that would follow. I would be seeing great sights, meeting new people, and trying exotic foods, all while improving my Spanish. I went backpacking for over five months, from the tip of Patagonia to the jungles of Ecuador, and it was incredible. That's not to say that I didn't have moments of homesickness, but in every new place was a hostel full of instant friends in the form of like-minded travelers ready to chat over coffee, get blitzed on cheap beer, and drop their half-formed plans in order to travel with you for the next week.

Living in a foreign country is different. Backpackers occupy a sort of hedonistic limbo, traipsing from country to country in the absence of the responsibilities of everyday life. In contrast, when you live somewhere, the excitement of the new and exotic is tempered by the same responsibilities and stresses that exist in the US: searching for an apartment, finding a job, paying bills. And all of this happens in a foreign language. In addition, there may be  annoyances that are completely new. In Lima, this takes the form of horrible traffic, loud and insistent horn-honking, and lack of organized public transportation.

But tedium and traffic are tolerable. The real problems come from the sense of being a perpetual outsider, culturally and linguistically. I speak very good Spanish, but classroom Spanish and real-world Spanish are different. Negotiating a hostel room or navigating the nightmarish Lima transportation system are no problem. Following a conversation between good friends, often in a loud bar, is another thing entirely. Jorge, bless his heart, assures me that when I don't understand something, I can just ask him. But what can I do when there's so much I don't understand? It's frustrating to be unable to participate in conversations. Without the tools to communicate, you become less vibrant a person, unable to contribute.

Even apart from the language, there is an entire realm of cultural knowledge that I'm not in on. Viral videos, that TV commercial from the 90s... these are the fodder for jokes and reminiscing. From politics to stupid reality shows to popular entertainers, there are a ton of cultural references that I did not grow up with, and therefore don't understand. All this is almost enough to make one retreat permanently to the comfort of the expat community, or to simply turn right around and go home.

Now, lest you think that living abroad is always depressing and I am having a terrible time of it here, it's not and I'm not. I'll talk about all the great things going on here in a future post, so please don't feel sorry for me. Ok, maybe just a little.

Home Sweet Home?

On Friday morning, at the end of a long ride in the night bus from Huaraz, I opened my sleep-sticky eyes and looked out the window. Tall, nondescript, concrete buildings; aging cars spewing exhaust; the angry sound of horns even at this hour of the morning... Yep, I was in Lima alright. But why was it so gray? I looked at my watch. Definitely after sunrise. Then I realized that this was the famous garua, or heavy gray mist that covers the city for over half the year. With a grumpy sigh, I put my sleep mask back over my eyes to block out the sight.

After two months of traveling through lush jungles and snow-capped mountains, the sight of Lima is singularly disappointing. Nobody can say that it is a beautiful city, and tourists seldom spend more than a couple days here. And yet, upon seeing it, I felt a peace settle over me. Here, there is a comfortable bed that I will sleep in for more than two nights, and a family that welcomed me into their home. Here, I don't have to repack my bag every morning, and I won't have to wear wrinkled clothing every day. Here, I have friends to be crazy with or to relax with, who will show me all the places that make Lima worthwhile. For the moment, Lima is home, and it feels good to be home after traveling for so long.

Danger on the Mountain

Cotopaxi: while not the highest volcano in Ecuador, it's certainly the most picturesque, with its frosty white cap and perfect cone. It's certainly the most visited - Cotopaxi National Park receives more visits annually than any other park in Ecuador except the Galápagos. And despite the name, there are actually two other significant mountains and one other volcano inside the park.

 Volcán Cotopaxi

Since I'm not motivated or fit enough to scale the entire mountain, we opted for the shorter, hour and a half hike up to the refuge from 4,500 meters. We drove into the park at 8 in the morning on an uncharacteristically clear winter day. We could see all the mountains and volcanoes in the surrounding area, including the twin Ilinizas to the west and an erupting Tungurahua to the south, a plume of grey rising from its tip. The dramatic Rumiñahui looked like the jaws of some prehistoric creature, mouth gaping in an eternal roar. It made a striking contrast to the perfect Cotopaxi.

Rumiñahui

The ground at the base of the park was covered in a strange lichen that resembled snow, and the field was littered with huge boulders that had been spit out of the volcano eons past. After we exercised our lungs and acclimatized a bit to the altitude, we continued in the car to 4,500 meters. From there, we took a long series of switchbacks up the next 350 meters to the refuge. I was definitely feeling the altitude and the slope, but we walked very slowly and all made it up in pretty good shape.

Strange lichen and large boulders

From there, we hiked the last 150 meters to the glacier and the 5,000 meter mark. The way up was clear, and we admired the stunning landscape and clear views the weather afforded us. However, within 15 minutes, threatening clouds came over the mountain and it began to hail. Cracks of thunder could be heard, and our hair began standing on end. Brian received a minor jolt of electricity to the head which knocked his hat clean off. At this point, our normally easy-going guide began shouting at us to get down the mountain and to turn off any electronics. Lightning flashed in the distance, and an eerie hum sounded all around. I realized that there was so much static electricity in the air that it was buzzing audibly. We ran as fast as we safely could down to the refuge, where we gratefully had a coffee inside. Other groups were pacing restlessly or peering dubiously at the sky through the windows. Ours was the only group to reach the glacier that day. 

The beginning of the storm

Brian on the glacier

After the fury had abated a bit, we decided to descend the last bit to the waiting car below. The sky was chucking it down by the bucketful, and the hail was large enough to hurt. We ran down to the car and bolted inside. 

When we got back to Latacunga, it was raining heavily, so we ducked into a seafood joint and enjoyed some beers. Many beers actually, for having survived the day.

Our excellent guide, Chasky

It's a Zoo: The Animal Market in Saquisili

Finishing our journey around the Quilotoa Loop, our last stop was the famous Thursday morning market in the little town of Saquisili. There's a produce market and a textiles market, but these were similar to markets everywhere in South America. However, the animal market was like nothing I'd ever seen. It was almost enough to make me go back to being vegetarian.

We set out from Chugchilan at the yawn-inducing hour of 6 am. The sun was just coming up, and the views were fantastic.

Two hours later, we pulled into Saquisili. The first sight that greeted us was an impressive cloud of dust and a large gathering of people and animals milling around; it looked like an early morning rodeo. As we drove into the market, we saw a farmer being pulled along by his cow, running to keep up with the mooing animal's frantic bid for freedom. Finally, a truck blocked the path and the cow pulled up short, and the farmer was able to regain control and lead it into the market.

Bound sheep waiting to be loaded onto a truck

After we got out of the car, we could see that the animals had been divided into different lots: pigs in one corner, sheep and goats in another, cows in the back. The smell was impressive, but the sounds were truly remarkable. Words simply cannot describe the chaos of noise that reached my ears: terrified animals mooing and bleating, farmers bargaining in rapid Spanish and Kichwa, a man extolling the benefits of whatever snake oil he was selling. Above all, and impossible to block out, was the terrible squealing of the pigs.

You might be a vegetarian after hearing these squeals

Piglets were being shoved into sacks. Babies and adults alike were being vaccinated on the spot. Bound pigs were pushed, pulled, or thrown onto truck beds after being sold, and others were simply picked up by a hind leg and carried that way. Not surprisingly, the pigs didn't take kindly to this treatment and let out shrill, pathetic squeals that sounded like they belonged in a slaughterhouse. The locals, being accustomed, didn't react at all.

These were the least unhappy pigs at the market

I know that this is much more natural than superfarms and mega-slaughterhouses, but I can tell you that I didn't eat pork for lunch that day.

Things You Shouldn't Tell Your Mother

There are things in life that you shouldn't tell your mother. Travel in South America can be hairy enough, but these past few days I went above and beyond. 

We're in Latacunga, Ecuador, and we decided to do the famous but rustic Quilotoa Loop. We caught a bus without a hitch, but then, 5 minutes away from town, there was a hitch: construction crews were widening the only road through the mountains and we wouldn't be able to pass for a few hours. Since town was only five minutes away, we decided to take the scenic route and walk around the construction.

We startled some sheep on the way down

It started as a reasonable walk down through some fields. Then, there was a well-constructed bridge to cross the river, so we figured there must be a path that continued around the bend. Not so! This is what we encountered:

At this point, we had walked to far and were too stubborn to turn back. We had seen small children coming back from school skirting the roadblock, so really, how hard could it be?

This is actually the easy part. Plus, we had cheerleaders

Well, really really difficult. And pretty dangerous too. (Looking back, I have no idea what we would have done if I had twisted my ankle or, God forbid, broken anything.) It started out alright, with clumps of grass to put our feet on and a clear route ahead of us. But then, there was a patch with only loose gravel and dirt that went all the way down to the freezing river below. If you start sliding on that... Well, that's exactly what I was trying not to think about as I bounded across it in 2 steps before landing safely on the other side. From there, it was still a mental and physical struggle. We were only about halfway up, and big piles of rocks and other gravelly parts awaited. At this point, we had gained an audience of concerned (or possibly amused) construction workers who were cheering us on from the top. Luckily, once we had reached the rocks, the going was easier, with footholds and handholds aplenty. Finally, we reached the top, shaken and exhausted, but in one piece. From there, an enterprising man with a truck shuttled us up to Quilotoa.

The (cold) view of the laguna

Quilotoa was a surprisingly small and disorganized town for how popular it is with tourists. But, our hostel was cozy and warm, sort of. The next morning, we descended to the laguna and relaxed a bit before hiking back up. It would have been a difficult hike under any circumstances, but at 4,000 meters it was agonizing.

That afternoon, we caught another ride in a pickup truck to the next town of Chugchilán, 7 miles away. The dirt road was bumpy and a bit hair-raising, but the views were spectacular. In order to see better, and to protect our backsides from the jolting, we opted to stand for the whole thing. 

Stunning views and sheer drops make for an interesting ride

We arrived, and after a bit of confrontation (the French couple riding with us didn't want to pay the agreed-upon price), we settled in to a relaxing day of hammocks and beer and mountains. No more climbing for at least a few more days!