"Peru has the Titi and Bolivia has the Caca"

Lake Titicaca. The world´s highest lake. The world´s biggest high altitude lake. The lake containing the most sacred Incan site. The only lake containing man-made floating islands. I guess in these competitive times one can´t just rely on the fact that it is a really big, really beautiful lake, it has to be the best really big, really beautiful lake.

While admitting my position outside of the realm of lake aficianados, I can confidently confirm that in its own right Lake Titicaca is an excellent lake. We began our exploration from Puno, Peru, taking a tour to the floating islands and another island called Taquile. The tour guide Manuel parochially provided the quote heading this entry. A slow boat from the Puno docks took us to the Uros floating reed islands, first made 500 years or so ago by people seeking refuge from the aggressive Incas. The islands are made of the floating reed roots with reed stems layered on top, with small houses built of...reeds inhabited by colourfully dressed people who seem to rely heavily on tourism. We know how the islands are constructed because the people built a scale model of them for us, complete with miniature houses and cooking stoves and smiling dolls.

Back to the boat for the long trip to Taquile island, a beautiful spot where we lunched and were entertained by two very old blokes playing drums and Andean flutes and a lady dancing prettily with a handkerchief. On this island, men have to be able to knit a water tight hat in order to win a wife. Sure enough, all the men were knitting skilfully in their idle moments, further evidence (as if required) of the utility of sex (or the withholding of it) as a motivational tool. Apparently all the Taquile men used to have very long hair until this tradition was quashed by compulsory national service and the military`s conservative approach to hairstyles. Nowadays, once married a man cuts off all his wife`s hair and makes himself a long wig to wear on special occasions.

The walk across the island afforded brilliant views across the lake. Above the water the enormous skies were clear, and clouds gathered thickly over the edges of the lake as if getting together to build up courage to come storming across the sky to smother the perfect clear blue. Sometimes distant snow-capped mountains, probably in Bolivia, were visible. The boat ride back to Puno was long but still lovely due to the beautiful and peaceful ambience.

From Puno we proceeded into Bolivia. At the border Mel observed an Australian woman rather similar in appearance and sound to the ocker red headed older woman that inhabits Summer Bay and every other Australian soap opera town. She complimented a chap near to her in the queue on his jacket, before informing him that he had been foolish to buy it in Peru because "everything`s cheaper in Bolivia". She then sang (like a crow sings) "I`m gonna get a baaaaaaaarrrrgain" while doing a little dance, cigarette in hand. Astonishingly, the border guards allowed us through despite sharing this person`s nationality.

There had been some discussion of visiting La Isla del Sol, the sacred island mentioned above, before the long trip to Uros and Taquile the previous day infected us with boat fatigue. We almost skipped it but finally decided to spend a night on the island, rather than just take a day tour. Thank Pachamama we did. When I asked people what locales we should not miss in South America, they said Machu Picchu, Buenos Aires, etc etc. When I am asked the same question in future I will say La Isla del Sol. The island lay about two hours by boat from the town of Copacabana and we played Travel Scrabble on the way (bravo Lucy and Anthony), glancing up every now and then from trying to win the 50 point bonus for using all our letters to see again the deep blue of the water, the sun sparkling off it, and numerous islands scattered into the distance where the massive peaks of the Cordillera Real stood. Once docked we had to climb a steep stairway but with accommodation organised we walked to the crest of the island where we could see the 50 or 100kms of 6000m snowy peaks in Bolivia on one side before looking back in the other direction to Peru, where a massive storm lashed the water. We spent a lovely relaxing day strolling on the island and I can`t say that I have seen anything more beautiful and awe-inspiring and "Gosh I`m insignificant really"-comment-triggering on the trip so far. Later, an Australian scoffed when I said how much I loved the island. "There`s nothing to do there, everything`s closed after 9" he said. He was right in a way I guess.

An incomplete taxonomy of Andean hats

Many, many, many different styles of hat are worn by the local people in the Andes, mostly by women. Please find below an amateur hat-fancier´s notes:

The "Marco the Horseman": White, ten-gallon cowboy style with Incan rainbow band tied around the head. As worn by a handsome horseman named Marco at the Lares valley chicha bar.

The "Alejandro": Dome-shaped head with round, medium circumference brim with down-turned edges. Decorated with rainbow band around the head and 3-4 inch tassels on each side.

The "Tablecloth": Flat and round on top, decorated with stitched or woven floral patterns. Plain black cloth hangs over the edge like a tablecloth.

The "Mestiza": White top-hat style with wide round brim and understated dark band. Worn, according to a tour guide, by the woman seeking a middle ground between traditional and modern fashion.

The "Flower Bowl":bowl-shaped, worn on a jaunty angle on the head with the bowl sides turned upwards. Decorated colourfully with fresh flowers, particularly if the wearer is single.

The "Weaver's Choice": dome-shaped, with wide round brim turned up at the sides. Decorated on top with colourful pieces of fabric in many patterns. These pieces are cut at the ends into tiny triangles that protrude over the side of the hat, as if it requires a defensive wall against some unknown hat-invading race.

The "Cruz del Condor Vendor": a beautifully woven hat, mainly white but with bright colours (blue, purple, pink, red) in intricate patterns. Brim is pinned up at the back and angles down at the front like a bonnet. First seen worn by vendors at the Cruz del Condor lookout at Colca Canyon (or valley or whatever it is).

The "Proud Mary" or "Showboat": White with round brim. Brim is plain, but headpiece is completely covered by a band made of small sequins and shiny bits and pieces (this hat provides strong evidence that all Demtel's left over Bedazzlers ended up in Peru) in pastel pinks, purples and blues. Set of with a large round bow on one side, giving the appearance of an old river steam boat. Given two names, one for Creedence fans and one for others.

The "AB" (or "Allan Border"): beanie made af alpaca (Alpaca Beanie = AB) with triangular earpieces and two ties (for under chin) with small pom-poms on each. Very decorative and bright, woven with patterns of pumas, llamas, condors, etc. A man wearing a bright pink one was seen at a Lares Valley work site; one shudders to think of the fate of a man arriving to an Australian work site in a pink beanie.

The "Midget Chaplin": rounded top with circular brim whose edges curl upwards. Too small to fit on head so sits precariously high above the hair. Does not seem to fly off in high winds although the fastening mechanism remains mysterious to the author. Provides zero sun protection.

The "Indiana Jones": similar to that worn by the eponymous action hero and now by the author, who walks around thinking he looks pretty intrepid but then slips into some prickles and has to take it off and turn away so as not to soil the Indiana legend by being seen to cry while wearing the hat.

Two treks

Uopn arrival at Cusco airport on March 4 we were picked up by a nice chap with Mel´s name (well, Melani Wassylk) on a piece of cardboard. On the way to the hotel he made a startling comment: Machu Picchu would be open on March 15, and would we like to go there? But, we heard it was closed until April 1! Yes, that is the official date, but the Minister of something or other has said it might open earlier, depending upon numerous variables known only to him. Our minds raced: we could go to Arequipa for a few days and return to Cusco to go to MP. Some internet research revealed the truth: Machu Picchu would open on April 1 for sure, and possibly earlier, but more like March 28. I fashioned a voodoo doll of the airport pick up guy from yucca and applied hot pokers to the crotch.

However, the tour company we had previously booked the Inca Trail with assured us that the Lares Valley was extremely beautiful as well, and if we took a three day hike there we could enjoy some other ruins on the fourth day as well. Sold! The party that departed Cusco at 5:30 am on 7/3/2010 was as follows:

The author

The author´s novia de prometido (Melanie)

Jacob and Kay ("My name´s Kay, just like the letter"), Yale graduate students in business and psychology, respectively (cue conversations about the utility of the Borderline Personality Disorder diagnosis and the use of symbolism in language [e.g. "he gave me a cold stare" and how that phrase relates to our literal interpretation of feeling cold, as in temperature-wise])

Flavio, enthusiastic and fit guide

Cirilo, heroic cook (see below)

Nine porters (that´s 2.25 each), named Julio, Cesar, Felipe, and I forget the others, except Wilbur whose name stood out for obvious reasons

It was immediately clear that this hike was of the luxurious kind: on the first day after a morning stroll up a gently sloping valley we dined on trout and rice and vegetables several ways, followed by coffee and tea, all consumed at a table next to a bubbling stream while the many staff boiled and cooled water for our afternoon leg. After this we strolled on to a town called Cancha-Cancha, which was actually a small collection of mud brick houses surrounded by meagre hillside crops ("the Incas would laugh at this" said Flavio, pointing out the lack of terracing) and a well maintained football field. The porters played football with the author running around flailing clumsily in an attempt to compete. My lungs burst into flame after the first five yard sprint and I suddenly remembered we were at about 3800m above sea level.

It was on this first evening that Kay revealed her Yale thongs (as in the footwear kind; the differing American and Australian interpretations of this word became acutely and hilariously apparent when Mel said to Kay "you´re kidding aren´t you, you have Yale thongs"!?), to match Jacob´s Yale jacket and visor. I prominently wore my Monash Blues beanie the next three days regardless of temperature (this detail was ignored by Kay and Jacob, or perhaps they have never heard of Monash University or the campus football team; inconceivable!). Dinner was another superb several course feast and we headed to our tents bloated, listening to Kay exclaim wildly at the brightly starlit night. The next day was my birthday, and when entering the small dining room we saw that our hosts had hung streamers and balloons that they presumably always carry just in case, because we only told them it was my birthday the night before. Before we ate breakfast they produced an extraordinarily large cake, superbly iced with my name and "Feliz cumpleaños", that had apparently been baked without the use of an oven (kudos Cirilo!). They sang (non-English speakers mumbled) Happy Birthday and I successfully blew out the candle, which was a match ("I´m very sorry Sam, we forgot the candles" said Flavio sincerely).

That wonderful formality out of the way we continued walking. The scenery was the star this day. There had been a storm during the night, and the ice-capped peaks above the valley rims were noticeably snowier than on the previous afternoon. The morning walk was harder than the previous day, up the valley slope towards a high pass at 4800m. The valley walls were verdant but steep, covered in (low-yielding, one expects) crops, along with alpacas, llamas, and sheep occupying unlikely and precarious positions. Paths cut across the valley walls everywhere, walked by the farm animals and dogs and people, the locals as always effortlessly overtaking us carrying huge loads and driving mobs of livestock. Chilly little streams cascaded down the sides from the glaciers, coming together to create the busy stream on the valley floor. Other valleys appeared and folded into ours, providing beautiful views back down to...mud brick villages and little streams and unusual livestock and glacial peaks. Close to the pass were three lakes on separate plateaus, and from the highest point we farewelled them as we "won" a whole new valley to explore. From there we descended to the magnificent lunch spot near another serene lake. This was to be the hardest part of the trek.

At lunch Flavio disclosed that he had been in the Peruvian army and had been injured by a grenade blast while fighting the Sendero Luminoso terrorists in the 1990´s. Already enjoying his company and respecting his fitness and knowledge we all went a bit quiet, slapped in the face by our ridiculous good fortune to be born in our respective countries.


The rest of the walk proceeded as above; hard in parts but only for fairly brief periods, and mainly just spectacular and beautiful and satisfying and punctuated by our awe at what Cirilo and his buddies presented for meals each day. On the afternoon on the second day we reached the final leg, the Lares valley, where we were promised soothing hot springs. At the cross roads (actually where two valleys met, the cross-valleys?) we stopped near a chicha (corn beer) bar, designated by an long stick protruding from the roof of the building with a red plastic bag attached. Many locals sat around in a festive atmosphere. We were accosted by Alejandro, an eight-year-old (the only personal data our limited Spanish could extract from him) who brazenly stared at us without distraction from about four feet away. His courage was underlined by the sight of two other small children peeking at us from the bar doorway and repeatedly recoiling back into the gloom when we looked over.

The hot springs were superb, the perfect end to our toils. We had a dip before dinner (which was obscenely voluminous) and another after dinner, when Flavio and all the guides joined us. Not Kay and Jacob though, as Kay had washed her hair before dinner, although how this stopped Jacob from swimming again escaped me. The pools were packed with kids, climbing up on each other´s shoulders to wrestle, the duo remaining standing declaring themselves "campeon". Some of the porters couldn´t swim, and senior porter Cesar tried to teach them, placing his hand under their chins to keep them afloat. There was no derision, and everybody seemed to be enjoying everbody else´s company, even when they didn´t seem to know each other. It was a lovely scene.

The final day was spent on buses with visits to Ollantaytambo and Chinchero, towns in the Sacred Valley of the Incas. Ollantaytambo in particular was quite spectacular and interesting, with substantial Incan ruins that were not actually all that ruined. It was built of staggeringly large stones, cut precisely and in such a way that no two stones were alike, all of them fitting perfectly together in countless ways with no mortar. This was apparently in part to allow a little movement and prevent collapse in the case of earthquakes. Flavio enthusiastically gave us the history of the place, and the quality of the buildings allowed us to fairly clearly imagine the Incas defending their property against the invading Spaniards coming down the valley, having already sacked Cusco.

We returned to Cusco certain that the Inca Trail and Machu Picchu could not have been any more beautiful or awe-inspiring, and that´s what we´re going to keep telling ourselves. From there we headed to Arequipa, a lovely city (in my opinion, not shared by Mel), whose buildings are made of a nice white stone, called sillar. We toured an interesting monastery and checked out mummies of 14 year old girls sacrificed by the Incas, but we were really there to explore the nearby Colca Canyon, "el cañon mas profundo del mundo" (profundo means deep), one of Peru´s top tourist attractions. We booked in for a two day trek down into the canyon on the eoncouragement of the hostel proprietor, who stated that no one that stayed at his hostel had ever needed to buy a mule for assistance on the hike. Perhaps this could be an ignominious first.

Unfortunately, Colca Canyon, although undeniably profundo, just did not grab us as Lares had. Perhaps it was because:
a) our guide was a limeño (guy from Lima) named Dennis who was a know-all and had an annoying and awkward social style. Example: he hilariously (!?) shook a rickety rope-and-plank bridge we were crossing about one minute after our trekking colleague Louise lost her cool and cried on account of this being the first and hardest (and easiest, although we didn´t point this out) hike she had ever done;
b) as mentioned above, Louise from Denmark was unprepared and required regular rests (every three steps), holding us up very badly and meaning we had to share a dodgy room as a result of being last into camp that evening;
c) it wasn´t clear what made this a canyon and not just another valley. We asked Dennis and he spun a yarn about canyon sides being set at a sharper angle than 70 degress, but was forced to admit that there was no generally accepted canyon definition criteria, and we started to think that canyon had just been chosen because it formed a nice alliterative pair with "Colca". Don´t canyons have vertical sides? Proposed future canyon/valley definiton assessment: Can your average person walk safely down the side of the geographical feature being assessed? a) Yes. b) No. If you answered a, it´s not a canyon. If you answered b, it is.
d) It was dry and barren and just not as beautiful as Lares.
e) We had to get up at 5am on the second day. This acceptable sleep insult was made immense by the drunken fools that lit a fire outside our room at 1:30 am and discussed...nothing frankly, although even from our beds it was obvious that the main theme was the presence of an American girl (who, guess what, had a loud voice) and two English boys who were competing for her affections. While I lay in bed carefully plotting hilarious put-downs based on this situation Dennis (props to Dennis, annoyingness aside) had to ask twice before they shut up.

Anyway, Colca Canyon was redeemed at the Cruz del Condor lookout, where there were many people but also many condors gliding majestically past with their three metre (an estimate) wingspans on awe-inspiring display, close enough so that were you holding a small child you would need to be vigilant to avoid he/she being plucked out of your arms as dinner up in the nest.

The ride back from the canyon was long and the various guides on the bus (several groups shared it) regressed to age eight, hooting as in a haunted house ride when we went through tunnels and giggling inanely. Luckily, the on-bus entertainment was a montage on eighties video clips, and after about an hour of sustained singing along from me everyone else on the bus shut up so we could get some sleep. Well, we except me; how could you sleep with Rick Astley and Van Halen videos on offer?

Note on hazards of blogging: I could add more detail but the girl next to me is talking to her mother on Skype, and the personal data she is disclosing in a voice audible to all in the internet cafe is so astonishing I have to leave. In short, she´s been up to some shenanigans and might have HIV but her biggest concern is her friend who has a Brazilian boyfriend and she is apparently dominating him but this is somehow of great concern (to the speaker´s dad as well apparently) and, oh fuck, goodbye...

Some notes on recently visited locales

Piura: a northern Peruvian transition town, where we disembarked from a bus at 10pm expecting to easily connect to Trujillo in the coast. We began to despair when the fourth bus company (they all have offices on the same street) we tried said, as the previous ones had done, "no pasajes". Apparently everyone in Peru was heading to Trujillo from Piura and were more organised than us. Just before we booked into the nearest hostel we tried one more, and this company inexplicably had many tickets available, possibly because an appalling Jennifer Lopez movie was playing in their waiting room. We were glad to not see so much of Piura.

Huanchaco: A desert beach resort a little north of the coastal city of Trujillo. On Mel´s (kind of) birthday we ate ceviche (fish and shellfish "cooked" in lemon juice and chilli) and "arroz con mariscos" (rice with seafood) and drank beer (a popular alcoholic drink made with malted grains, hops and water) right on the beach. It was a wonderful day, only enhanced by the presence of a zillion partying Peruanos enjoying their Sunday rest. We observed a lot of people who must have had ready made sickie excuses for the Monday.

Lima: Nine hours by bus from Trujillo, through barren but spectacular coastal desert. We had numerous glimpses of jagged coastline with bright blue water standing out starkly against the relatively dull sand. The colour was the only thing that was dull, the dunes and enormous flocks of birds on the beaches again keeping the iPod securely packed away in the backpack. The bus company, Oltursa, has an in-bus video describing some tourism options in Peru, all backed by a soundtrack dominated by Gary Numan´s Cars! Does he know his song has such a wide reach?

The beds in the Lima Sheraton are among the most comfortable in Peru, and the service second to none. Alas, we were staying in the Hostal Belen, right on the outrageously noisy Plaza San Martin. The bed was so ear-splittingly creaky the word "creaky" was rendered hopelessy inadequate, and the window curtain was lacy and thin so that the bright city lights shone dazzlingly in at all hours of the night. By contrast, the shower curtain was elaborate and dense, making a shower an undeniably private but very dark affair ("hello darkness my old friend..."), even when the bathroom lights were on. Matthew Parris, in his book Inca-Kola, named the first chapter "Atrocious Lima", and while this feels a little harsh we were glad to leave. The highlights were the best Pisco Sour to date in a very old school limeño bar and a photographic exhibition at the Museo de la Nacion remembering the terrorism of the Sendero Luminoso and other groups during the 1980´s and 90´s. Also at that museum we were lucky enough to see a dress with an image of Machu Picchu woven into it, the closest view of that attraction we are to get as it is cut off by mud slides until after we leave Peru. How good can it be anyway (wiping tears away)?

Cusco: We flew here from Lima, avoiding a 20 hour bus ride. A beautiful city, nestled in a valley and subject to a strict town planning code, resulting in low buildings with uniformly desert-red rooves. There are several beautiful squares and plazas, the atmosphere in these areas being slightly soured by the multitude of touts for restaurants and massage parlours. We ate bad pasta but excellent pizza, and lovely stuffed peppers and alpaca kebabs. I obtained a brown hat that had me humming the Indian Jones theme, and I was thrilled when Guido the guide at Sacsayhuaman ruins suggested I enter a dark tunnel ahead of Mel because "you look like Indiana Jones sir". The city is close to many Incan ruins, and we were told that the original town of Cusco, the Incas´ original capital city and centre of their empire, was built in the shape of a puma, with nearby Ollantaytambo in the shape of a llama. Perhaps Nerrin Nerrin, when seen from the air (the plane would have to be flying pretty low admittedly), appears as a ferret? Or Lake Bolac as a camel, albeit retaining water less successfully. There´s a coffee table book in this.

Into Peru

From Vilcabamba we travelled by bus to Loja, and from there into Peru. The ride west and then south from Loja may have provided the best scenery of the trip yet. The bus climbed and descended, travelling along roads cut into the sides of mountains and protected from driving off the steep edge only by piles of dirt (presumably left there after the making of the road) or by nothing at all. The road edge is usually only about a foot from the precipice, the lip often invisible from the bus window seat. As far as we could see hillsides rose and fell, each mountian partially eclipsing a larger one behind it. For some time we were surrounded by cloud, and the temperature dropped, and the greens of the sun dappled valleys visible beneath us were made more brilliant by our gloomy viewpoint.

Often the views were on the left and from the right window I craned my neck to see, only to frequently miss spectacular sights suddenly appearing right next to me. At one stage as we descended I glanced up to see two animals, possibly goats, seemingly "standing" on a completely sheer vertical cliff face, their profiles clear against the beige rock. The improbability of their position was underlined by the sight of numerous vultures waiting overhead. At another point I had a clear view down another green valley, the sides neatly framing a massive mountain in the distance. The mountain peak was occluded by a dark storm cloud that stretched across at valley rim height and sat on some dead level air pressure table. Our bus continued and the view was blocked by cloud for some time until we rounded a valley fold and the sky ahead was clear. The gloom transformed into the bright pastels of sunset with the newly revealed mountains reduced to a mere sideshow. I had no need for books or other entertainments.

Almost instantly upon crossing the border into Peru the beautiful views disappeared and the road quality improved enormously. Our overall enjoyment of the bus ride was marginally reduced by the stench of northern Peruvian agricultural industry as night fell. We were in the desert.

Espero and his flighty friend

To continue south from Cuenca more buses were required. When there are no movies screened on longer bus rides the ¨entertainment¨is provided by vendors quickly leaping on at stops and selling everything from ice cream to pirated DVDs. It was from such a vendor that Mel obtained an extremely handy sewing kit in Latacunga. When one doesn´t want fruit or freshly baked banana bread there are the salesman who stay on the bus as it moves, describing at length the multiple benefits of their product which will usually be a ¨medical¨ product of dubious origin and allegedly providing heretofore unseen benefits to the mental and physical health of the customer. While Mel and I are chuckling at the ridiculousness of it, Ecuatorianos seem to be buying the stuff. Perhaps all this quality public health care has Australians fooled: we should be buying getting our prescriptions filled on the bus.

While waiting on a bus in a terminal we got talking to Kevin, an Irishman coming up from the south. He assurred us that the bus vendors are only really prominent in Ecuador, and had just finished describing the incredible variety of products he had seen being sold when a well built, aviators-wearing young black man stepped onto the bus. He held a portable stereo on his shoulder and began to rap (I believe that is the correct terminology; I tried ¨freestyle¨ but I think he had practiced beforehand. Had I used ¨freestyle¨ there and he hadn´t practiced, would that be correct usage? Someone cool get back to me) over the beats it provided (does ¨beats¨ jar there to anyone else?). It was in Spanish but was undoubtedly passionate and political in flavour. It was excellent and he earned fifty cents from us. Kevin had to admit that it was the first time he had seen that.

We were headed to Vilcabamba, a quiet town in a beautiful spot, famous in part for the abundance of an hallucinogenic cactus and, subsequently, hippies and others fleeing the rat race. We stayed at Cabañas Rio Yambala, our cabin built into the side of a hill and providing a superb view of the Valle de Yambala from our bed. This accommodation is highly recommended to anyone in the area. We stayed two nights and spent our one full day on a horse ride up to a hiking refuge high above. I scored Espero, the wise and serene old horse that was to lead the expedition, while Mel mounted a more youthful and flightly nag who preferred to run up and down the sloped parts of the track. The path was very narrow and very slippery in parts, and Mel´s horse proved repeatedly that his stratgey was foolish but displayed an admirable commitment to speed. Mel never came off but her steed´s knees were soon raw.

The path wound around steep valley edges, rarely with any protection from the fall if missteps were made (although Mel´s horse went too fast, he only went forwards, never sideways), and took us up high above our accommodation, through valleys folding into each other and across several rushing streams (cue Man From Snowy River theme). We enjoyed magnificent views back to Vilcabamba, and then of several homes built in impossibly remote locations, grand houses whose raw materials must have been carried up on foot or horse as no roads could be seen. Cattle grazed on the steep hillsides and dogs barked at us from far away on the valley side. We rode to a refuge and had lunch and then hiked into the bush to a little zip line and bridge set up above the trees that was a lot more terrifying than we expected at first glance. On the hike back the path was slippery and I chivalrously led Mel to an alternative path, only to slip one second later and fall into the spikiest bushes in all of Christendom. While we picked the thorns out of my hands and chest the guide just walked off out of sight, apparently disgusted by my clumsiness. We arrived back at the Cabañas bow legged and enjoyed again our serene valley views and pleasant hospitality from Charlie the ex-pat Yank (who enjoyed declaring that all the other Americans in the area were "weird" or "crazy") and his family.

We left Vilcabamba the next day, destination: Peru!

Deportivo Cuenca lord it over Universidad Catolica

Baños is nestled in a picturesque valley with the currently erupting Volcan Tungurahua looming above, although all views of this mountain were obscured by clouds during our stay. We boarded a bus on the morning of the 22nd of Feb to head to Cuenca. The bus climbed and dipped as all the mountain buses have and after intially standing I found the middle rear seat free. I looked out the rear window and saw a huge mountain, almost double taking as I realised that it might be Tungurahua. There didn´t seem to be any fireworks and so my gaze drifted further left, where a much larger mountain stood, it´s dark shape just visible among some clouds. Above it loomed a sinister grey mushroom cloud, obviously of different provenance to the fluffy white clouds nearby. I seemed to be the only interested party on the bus.

The bus took longer than expected and stretched into the night. As darkness fell we were entertained by a Spanish-dubbed Jim Carrey marathon on the TV, but the scenery provided a welcome distraction (The Mask was still funny without dialogue, and Liar Liar was okay). The bus followed roads cut into steep mountains, with a sheer cliff face on one side and an equally sheer drop on the other. Cars were protected from the precipice by piles of dirt presumably left there when the road was built or by nothing at all. With the moonlight we could see the sharp edge but not the contents of the valley below, as it was hidden beneath a white blanket of cloud. Distant mountains and lights glowing in towns were sometimes visible but mostly everything was completely hidden by white. It is hard to imagine it being any more beautiful on a clear night.

We arrived late in Cuenca, a city neither of us had heard of until flipping through a Lonely Planet Best Travel 2010 book in Melbourne Airport the day we left. It is a lovely city, with cobblestoned streets and numerous old churches, including the first built by the Spanish in Ecuador in the 16th century. Upon arrival we were assaulted with friendliness by the proprietors of La Casa Cuencana, a "hostel" where backpackers basically just stayed in the owners' spare rooms. They gave us the check-in spiel in Spanish, so that we knew which key opened which door but that was all that was understood.

There were a few must see sights but mostly we just enjoyed wandering the streets, all of which were dead straight and generally provided a view of mountains or some grand church or public building at the end. After attending a museum describing Cuenca's medical history (Mel is now hoping she can tax-deduct the whole trip) we strolled along the river and came upon a stage being constructed to host some live music sometime soon. It occurred to me that we were near the city stadium. "Can we just walk down here just in case there is a game on tonight?", I enquired. Mel sceptically accepted. There was activity by the stadium, stalls already set up, Cuenca jerseys on the ground for sale, made of the kind of material that bursts into flame as soon as the temperature gets above 30 degrees. Sure enough, when I said "juego hoy?" (game today?; I had to look it up) to a guy behind a desk he replied "Si, a la seis". Tremendous!

So, a la seis, we found ourselves at the stadium to see Deportivo Cuenca play Universidad Catolica. When the opposition took the field they were hilariously greeted with a chorus of wolf whistles, while Cuenca came on to the tune of their theme song, with riff lifted straight from Gary Numan's "Cars". Early in the first half we were distracted from the sport by a pink and orange sunset behind the mountains around Cuenca, but once we started watching the game it seemed to be of high quality to our inexperienced eyes. Every minor Catolica mistake was greeted with more wolf whistles and I soon joined in as long neck beers were only $2 (what was I ssupposed to do?). Even valiant defensive efforts by the opposition were jeered if the ball went out of play or not directly to a teammate. I didn´t see any Catolica fans either, perhaps the very large number of riot police and many lengths of barbed wire put them off?

Cuenca scored at the end of the first half and I was informed by the nice chap (Alfredo) beside me that the crosser and scorer were both from Argentina. They held this lead to the final whistle and happy Cuenca fans spilled into the street, presumably to vigorously patronise the zillion fast food outlets outside the stadium. We returned tothe stage being constructed earlier and stood chewing meat on sticks and drinking warm Zhumijr (The Latin Spirit) while an experienced bard charmed the crowd with all their old favourites. Everyone (well, Spanish speakers) knew the words and one track featuring the words ¨Comandante Che Guevara¨ in the chorus was particularly well received. Mel and I were flagging and returned to th hostel for bed, only to be woken by a sequence of extremely loud fireworks explosions that were just as unexpected among the local population if the sounds of car alarms, dogs barking, and people running and exclaiming in the streets were anything to go by. It is embarrassing to admit that the fireworks went off at 11:30pm, and we had already been asleep for and hour and a half.