From Zu - salt pans

Written by Zu on March 2nd.

Earlier this week we went for a long walk from a town called Urabamba to a village called Maras. On the way we passed a really interesting place where they make salt. What is incredible is that they have been making salt here for over 600 years - well before the Incas ruled.

The rock contains a lot of salt. As the water runs through the hill it picks up the salt.Then the water is directed into the salt pans through channels. The water is allowed to evaporate leaving the salt behind. Then they scrape the salt up and put it into bags.

There is so much more to say about our lives here but that is all for now.

Cuzco 5 - The lost binoculars

Two weekends ago we set off for a Sunday excursion to Tipón, some Inca ruins about 15 km east of our house.  We took a taxi to the village and plodded up the road to the ruins.  To distract the boys I told one of my corny PC McAllister stories.  He’s a policeman from Orkney who very quickly solved all the crimes at home and now has to bust baddies round the world.  In this one he smashed a drug-smuggling ring in Colombia – or was it the corrupt policemen in Bolivia?  I can’t remember. 

At the gate to the ruins the guardian tried to overcharge us by asking for a fee for Zu.  I already knew that he gets free entry until he’s 10.  I said I would need a receipt and the chap soon backed down.  I felt rather sorry for him. 

The ruins started by the car park with a rather beautiful ‘Inca bath’ – water flowing down a channel of cut stone into a shallow trough.  I was getting ready to be all reverent until I saw there was a sign prohibiting the washing of cars. The ruins turned out to be an exceptionally beautiful and well-restored series of terraces with the water channelling through.  As always, it all felt rather harmonious and tasteful. We picnicked on the terraces and then set off to find an aqueduct at the top.  Although it no longer has water running through it, this too was an impressive feat of stonework.

From the top of this we decided to drop down to what looked like some other ruins and a village on the other side.  On the way we saw lovely Andean Flickers – woodpeckers – that like to congregate on sunny rocks. We found more ruins and more terraces, but these one unrestored as yet. 

A man ploughing with two oxen told us how to get back down to Tipón village and we had a delightful walk down a gorge.  On the other side was a cliff with partly bricked up holes in it.  We examined them with binoculars and speculated about undiscovered Inca treasure.  But by the time we got down to the bottom we had seen so many holes or entrances that we knew the secret could not be ours alone.  I looked it up later and read that poor Incas were often buried sitting up in holes in cliffs.

We arrived back at Tipón village tired and thirsty and immediately indulged in Fantas and Sprites on a bench in the square. At this point I approached a local taxi to take us back to the main road and having agreed a price (50p) we all rushed to jump in.  On the main road we found another taxi to take us back to Cuzco and welcome cup of tea.  But before we could drink it, Martha, looking very pale, announced she could not find her binoculars. 

Before I go any further I had better explain that these were a pair of Zeiss binoculars she bought when she joined the BBC 25 years ago.  A replacement pair would cost about £1,500. 

She thought we had either left them on the bench in the square or in the next taxi.  She had been clutching a bottle of Sprite when she should have been clutching the binoculars.  I decided to go back to Tipón to have a look for them and left Titus comforting Martha while Zu complained that he would have no-one to play football with.  (How he had the energy, I don’t know.  We had walked for about five hours). 

Back in Tipón there was no sign of the binoculars.  I went into the shop where we had bought the drinks and talked to rather a listless woman.  I left our details and the promise of a $100 reward.  Back down at the main road I questioned the taxi drivers and also promised them the same reward.  However, I could not see or recognise the driver who had carried us and I set off back for home feeling they were all a bunch of shifty sharks. 

The next day I went to the police station to make a denuncia  in the hope of claiming something off our insurance.  One of them greeted me like an old friend – I had already spent a couple of hours in their company making a denuncia  after M’s handbag was stolen.  The process involves sitting while they type out the form.  This is very slow because it is done with one finger and they often have great difficulty reading passport details and spelling awkward words like Zeiss.  Once this is all done you have to sign, press your index finger against an ink pad then put your fingerprint put by the signature.  You are given a slip to take to the bank where you pay 80 pence for another receipt. (This might have involved a couple of hours of queuing but I managed to look hopeless and the man at the information desk queue-barged for me).  This you take back to get your copy of the denuncia – if the right person is there.  There might be a further delay if they can’t find the stapler which they share between offices on different floors. 

During this process I asked one of the policemen what I should do to try to get the binoculars back. He suggested I contact Tipón’s radio station and have an announcement made with the offer of a reward.  “That’ll make them listen” he said.  “How much should I offer?” I asked. “10 o 20 soles” came the reply - $4 or $8.  I wondered if my $100 had been way over the top. 

The next day but one I set off again, sure that by midday a series of enticing announcements would begin on Radio Tipón.  But when I got to the turn off (by bus this time) the vulture taxi drivers assured me there was no radio station.  They all listened to Cuzco stations.  Rather demoralised, I walked up to the square.  A young lady of about 20 approached me with a rather forward smile.  I feared the offer of a massage, though that didn’t seem likely there. Instead we had rather a pleasant conversation.  She worked in tourism in Lima and was there staying with her aunt. She liked to talk to tourists.  I told her my mission.  She immediately took me over to another shop where an impressive-looking lady shopkeeper immediately took down our numbers and said she would make an announcement in Spanish and Quechua that very evening over the tannoy in the square. I stressed there would be a good recompensa and left feeling quite optimistic.   

My new friend, Geraldine, and I then chatted some more.  She told me there was a US-funded NGO in the village which worked with children.  I thought about asking for their help but they were out somewhere.  Geraldine then introduced me to a small boy who was partially crippled in the legs – he’d been run over by a taxi when very little.  She told me he sang beautifully in Quechua and he was persuaded to give it a go in return for some spicy snack. He sang quite loudly and I was glad when he finished. Before I left Geraldine suggested that we should come back the following Sunday afternoon for the village’s birthday party, with music and dancing. I set off home, taking another bus.  I was rather pleased that the whole outing cost me less than $1 this time. 

Alas, no one rang about the binoculars. So that Saturday we decided to go to the Baratillo market in Cuzco where, we were told, stolen things generally ended up. We went with Lucho, one of the three brothers from the hostal we first stayed in.  We had been told it was quite a rough place and that they didn’t like gringos there so we took the minimum of everything and hid money in different pockets and my socks. Martha removed her earrings.  It turned out to be a very crowded little market selling everything – hardware, clothes, stationery.  But there were sections selling used gas-bottles, car wheels, car mirrors, car radios - all obviously stolen.  Then there was a big section selling mobile phones with the odd camera or pair of binoculars, but not Martha’s.  In one place various young men stood about, most with mobile phones but one with a video camera. We passed through this lot once but later Martha decided to pass through them again.  However, she said that the second time a policeman or guard of some sort had blown a whistle and they had all quickly blended into the crowd.  All very interesting but no binoculars. 

On the Sunday we were keen to get out again and opted to go back to Tipón rather than explore the hills behind the house.  We had spotted a village from which we could get up to a high ridge.  We had an invigorating three or four-hour walk. On the way up I told another of my awful stories which was interrupted by the excitement of seeing wild guinea-pigs.  Well, Martha saw them; the rest of us looked out for them.  Eventually Zu, Martha and I got to a little peak while Titus, who had only eaten biscuits since his light breakfast of mashed bananas, sat and waited, feeling a little sorry for himself.  From up high we had a good view of yet another Inca wall above the ruins of Tipón.  It had not been restored and we could not guess its purpose but it was still in fine condition.

By the time we got back down to the village it was late afternoon and fiesta was in full swing. At least people were mingling about, there were a few stalls selling food and loud music was blaring out of some speakers under a canopy in the middle of the square.  The tree in the middle of the square was being decorated with objects, mostly plastic: washing-up bowls, chairs, buckets, stools and lots of Tupperware.  I am told this is a carnival tradition and in the more remote areas they decorate the trees with mantas, their woven blanket/shawl things.  I looked for my dynamic lady shop-keeper but she had disappeared leaving a child to mind the shop. A good number of the men seemed a little the worse for the chicha and beer that was being consumed and many of the others were on their way.   Zu, hungry as always, bought a plate of pasta with a chicken wing on top.  We thought we would go as soon as he had finished. But while waiting I spotted Geraldine sitting on a bench and went over to talk to her.

She and her family were most welcoming and the conversation quickly turned to the binoculars.  Geraldine tried to find the shop-lady who had been going to make the announcement but she was thought to be off partying somewhere.  Her family then approached the village presidente, a tall, moustachioed man who had a big necklace of ticker tape, to help.  He looked at me very sternly but then wandered off to the stage.  I thought he might make an announcement but he was just off to do something presidential. 

Then one of her cousins asked her daughter, a girl of about 10, if she had seen anyone with binoculars.  Yes, she replied, she’d seen a little boy with a pair of big binoculars in the week.  She knew exactly which boy and she went off to find him.  He was a tiny, snotty-nosed little fellow in a dirty blue jumper whom Martha had been watching earlier.  When asked whether he had found some binoculars he said “Yes”. Then, when he saw everyone looking at him, “No”.  And a moment later “I didn’t steal them.” 

An uncle of Geraldine’s, an off-duty policeman, was now persuaded by all the women to go and find the family.  Rather unwillingly he set off through the village.  He came back saying that the father was very drunk but the family all swore they had no binoculars in the house, despite the promise of a reward.  I thanked them all for trying and wondered whether sending a policeman had been foolish.  But before long one of the accused family came to ask “How much?”  The presidente was quickly brought in as a broker.  I looked in my wallet and said $80, which was all I had in dollars.  All agreed that this was a very fair amount.  The presidente went off to talk with a stumbling man and two rough-looking teenage sons. The price was agreed and one of the boys went off to get the binoculars.  A few minutes later, round the side of the church, I handed $80 to the presidente who handed it to the father.  Either he couldn’t read or his eyes wouldn’t focus but the presidente had to count it out for him and assure him that it was the agreed amount.  Then one of the boys took the binoculars from under his shirt and gave them to me.  We all shook hands and thanked each other.  The presidente  said proudly “No one loses anything here.”

Martha came over, rather emotional.  All the women asked what the matter was and I had to explain the binoculars had great sentimental value.  We stayed another forty minutes or so.  Geraldine and her cousins and aunts kept going over the case.  “What luck you came back!”  “What luck my little girl saw the boy!”   We left with fond farewells and lots of invitations to visit them again. I pressed all our spare Peruvian soles – about $30 - into the hands of one of the cousins.   By now it was dusk and we thought about going out to dinner to celebrate but in the end thought we would all prefer a spaghetti bolognese at home.

Schooliforms

Zu and Titus have now got their uniforms - best quality nylon.

From Titus

Stolen from an email T wrote...

In England you hardly see  lightning or hear thnder, but here  you see it every night!

 

We had a black-out the other night!

Hummingbirds

Great joy from Zu and Titus this afternoon as they spotted a hummingbird on the fuchsia in the garden.  A Sparkling Violetear.  We have now moved the feeder so close to the fuchsia in question that, we hope, it cannot fail to be noticed by the next visitor.  Titus feels sure that the first hummingbird will tell all the other hummingbirds and we will soon have hundreds.  Martha responded with something scientific about territories.

Hummingbird

Zu:  one of my best pictures so far

Click to enlarge

Cuzco 4 - Football

This was mainly written for Zu's team mates and their parents in Monmouth.  Skip to the other posts below if not interested.

On our third day here we were down at Pisac,  a small town about 40 minutes away from Cuzco.  We saw about 20 teenagers being trained on a beautiful pitch beside the hotel. It was all being taken very seriously.  By chance we then bumped into the coach as we were about to return to Cuzco. I asked about training for 9 year olds.  He scribbled down the address of a monastery and the name ‘Stephen’, English Soccer School.

We found the run-down old monastery and on the gate was a sign for English Soccer School with telephone number but on the pitch there was another club training – Alianza Junior.  They were very welcoming and we took down their details.  Then friends took us to another school run by Martin Garcia, who won the Copa de Libertadores with Cienciano, the only Cuzco team to have won it.  There was no one there but the pitch they train on looked awful – large patches of bare mud.  We also felt little intimidated by the area;  it was something of a no-man’s land. (Martha’s handbag has already been stolen and we are perhaps a little jittery). A fourth option was put to us by a taxi driver: the Alianza Lima – Cuzco.  They were a little gruff on the phone but said Zu could join.

All this was right at the end of their long summer holidays and almost all the clubs were still running their holiday sessions – three hours a day, five days a week! We waited to see the term-time timetable (starting on March 1^st).  In the end we plumped for English Soccer School who train 3.30 to 6.00 on Tuesdays and Thursdays and from 9.00 to 12.00 on Saturdays, largely because this timing suits us.  For this we pay about £11/month.  This helps to pay the assistant coaches, probably at a reasonable rate for Peru. I think it also subsidises the boys with promise whose parents can’t afford to pay.

The chief coach, Stephen, is a missionary from Bristol.  He does the organising but doesn’t do much coaching.  In fact, on most of the occasions we’ve been there, he has spent the majority of the session jawing with me.  He’s been here seven or eight years and is married to a Peruvian but I think he’s a bit homesick.  The two men who do the actual coaching are Michel and Miguel, cousins, and are excellent. Although called ‘English Soccer School’ there is not an English voice to be heard except Stephen’s.

All this is probably making it sound as though the football scene is quite organised.  It isn’t.  Training nominally begins at 3.30 but if you turn up at that time you’ll be guaranteed a good long wait for the first coach or boy.  Turn up at 4.00 and they might just be thinking of fetching the balls from the lock-up. Nor can you guarantee a good turn-out.  If it looks rainy or cold (and now is the end of the rainy season) only five or six might turn up.

The training itself is good.  There is a surprising amount of emphasis on physical fitness.  The boys have to run round the pitch with the ball, without the ball, then walk round to recover.  Zu was a little breathless at first but is now fine.  Then the exercises themselves involve more running.  But of course individual skills aren’t neglected.  They have to dance their way through cones or sticks with the ball, forwards and backwards, with right foot, with left foot.  And they are taught to curl the ball when shooting, both with the inside and outside of the foot.  Zu loves the shooting sessions – the ball whistles through the air with delicious speed at 11,000 feet.

We get to training in a mini-bus colectivo.  Luckily the route begins near our house and we get a seat. However, it fills up rapidly and after five minutes all the 14 seats are full.  But they still stop merrily at bus stops and try to entice more passengers on.  We’ve had 26 before, which inevitably means someone almost sitting on my knee and a fight to get off.  Luckily the conductors tend to be very bossy and force the other passengers to make way. Strangely this means of transport feels much safer than going by taxi; the taxi drivers like to weave their way through the traffic but anticipation is rarely a strong point. The cost for the half journey is another advantage – 20p for the two of us.

At the first session most of the better players were away playing in the semi-final of a tournament.  But there were still twelve or so at the training so a game could be played.  It soon became apparent that Zu was the best player on the pitch and his side were soon five or six up.  One rather loud-mouthed boy on the other side, who obviously fancied himself,  took exception to this. When Zu next took the ball off him he suddenly let out a shriek.  “He pinched me! He pinched me!” he shouted to the ref, Michel.  The ref, with a slight grin, walked up to him while all the other players crowded round. “Show me the mark” he said.  Of course there was none and all the other boys gave him a good ribbing.  His tussles with Zu remained equally competitive but he did not resort to foul play again.  I was amused to see that this boy put on a top after the game with ‘Alemania’ on the back.

The first team won their semi-final and we went along to the final.  This was played on the artificial grass training pitch of Garcilaso, one of the two first division clubs in Cuzco.  The opponents were the Academy boys from Cienciano, the other big team.  Before the match, ‘English’ went into a huddle which took rather a long time.  The ref became impatient and blew his whistle a few times.  I suddenly realised that Stephen was leading them in prayer.  Alas, it did not help.  Cienciano were better and more physical.  They had a centre half and midfielder who were like young Kray twins and the little ‘English’ flies were pushed off the ball time and time again.  The ‘English’ supporters were incensed by this and shouted all sorts of rude things at the ref, albeit in very good humour.  In between they chanted (in thick Spanish accents) “Ingleesh, ingleesh, ingleesh”.  In the end Cienciano won 3-0.  Zu of course was itching to play and could possibly have made a difference.  The coaches are keen to know if he will be available for the next tournament in April, so they obviously think he can make the team.

Of course this is not all the football Zu plays.  Just up the hill from us is a concrete football –come– basketball pitch.  He loiters there after school and has inveigled himself into several games. We have been hoping he would learn some more Spanish doing this but if the language of football is universal it isn’t sophisticated: aca, aca, aca (here, here, here) is about all they seem to shout except gooooool!