Dear Mum, Dad, Jem, Mal, Deb & Chris,
I left the hotel and my round bed (after a very good night’s sleep!) for a cheaper hotel and a rectangular bed. This one was about 1/3rd the price and threw in breakfast!
I was almost out of cruzeiroes (money) so I went to change some travellers cheques. In Brazil, the best place to change these is, where else, travel agents. I went to a few where I was told it wasn’t “allowed” to change ttravellers cheques anywhere except banks, they would however change US dollars cash! Travellers cheques changed in banks get 50 cruzeiros to the dollar, on the street I got 57. Cash is usually 57-58 against 51 in banks. The reason for the difference is the lack of “hard” currency which is needed by anyone dealing with imported goods (chemists, electronic shops etc.) and also travel agents who much pay for international airfares in hard currency. I soon found my agent.
I then went to the Argentinian consulate for a visa, being an Australian it cost me $20 and took 1 day. (Yanks also take 1 day but get it free, Poms pay about $20 but must wait 2 weeks. One English guy I met explained it was only because they lost the war [over the Falkland Islands]).
Because of the rapid change in temperature I came down with a cold. That combined with diarrhea and an earache meant that most of the next two days I spent in bed. Between naps I went to Sugar Loaf Mountain, Copacabana Beach (which I had almost to myself – not many people tend to swim in the rain in Rio?), and Corcouado (where the statue of Christ looks over Rio from the top of a mountain about ½ mile high.)
I left Rio on 24th September bound for Igauncu Falls. The first bus I caught was for Sao Paulo. I just missed the 3:20 bus so I had to wait around for the 3:30. (Between Rio and Sao Paulo – pop 14,000,000 – buses are fairly regular.)
The trip took six hours so I got to the Sao Paulo terminal at 9:30 PM. The last bus to Foz de Igauncu left at 9;30, by the time I found the ticket booth, it had left. I didn’t want to wait until noon the next day, so I got out my map of Brazil, comparing the buses still to run that night with its position on the map. I found one that was on the way to Foz and took it (10 PM). The only problem was that it arrived at its destination at 4:30 AM. I had to wait around 2 ½ hours for the first bus to Foz, and I was cold! When I left England I took only one jumper. Somehow between London and Toronto I lost it (I left it on the plane I think.) For the last 5 months or so I haven’t had one, nor really needed one (although if I’d had one in Boston the day I was locked out of the Youth Hostel in the snow, I probably would have worn it), But I think I may have to buy one soon! Probably in Bolivia, with inflation at 2000-3000% things tend to cheap!
My bus arrived at Foz just as it was getting dark. For the first time since Turkey, the bus I was on was greeted by “Tourist Officials” trying to help tourists find hotels. The first quote I got was for $30, the guy seemed surprised when I told him it was a little too expensive. From there the prices decreased as I pushed my way through the gathering. The lowest price I was given was for $10 for a double (singles are alawys the first to go as they are usually half the price of a double!) I ended up getting it for $7.50 but I still think I was ripped off.
I put my bag in a luggage sitters (it was 1/3rd of the price my hotel would have charged me; it was a particularly scabby place, most will watch your bags between when you check out, and when your bus leaves, gladly, for nothing. This place also charged $1 for showers!) the next morning, then I set off for the Falls.
The Argentinian side is reportedly best at this time of the year, as it’s the dry season you can go onto one of the ledges without being washed over (although rumour has it any Poms without visas visiting, go over wet season or dry – everyone else can go there for the day without a visa.) The only problem is that to get to that side from Foz, you must take a bus to a river, then find a ferry which crosses occasionally. Once you get across the river you have to look for a minibus which will take you to (near anyway) the falls. The last bus had to be paid for in Argentina Australs (which I didn’t have) and only left ever 3 hours. All of this information I got from my guidebook – I read it while I was waiting for the ferry. The last bus had left ½ an hour before, and as I was only going to be in Foz until lunchtime (I was going to take a bus to Assunsion [Paraguay] at 12:30) I didn’t have time to do this.
Instead I went to the Brazilian side – “best for overall views of the falls”. To get there required only one bus. While I was waiting for this bus, I met the New Zealand parachuting team, in Foz for the World Championships. They were waiting at the same bus stop so I presumed they were going to the Falls. They had a bit of stuff with them. One guy had a backpack with a whole lot of adjustable straps and cords on it. They were on their way to the airport for a few practice jumps! [That reminds me of a joke I heard in the States – “There were here passengers on a plane - a priest, a hippie, and Henry Kissinger - which suddenly lost all power and started to lose altitude. The pilot announced over the intercom that since he was responsible for the plane he would try to land it, and that they, the passengers, should jump. The only problem was that there were only 2 parachutes for the use between the three of them. Immediately Henry Kissinger comes to the fore, and explaining that in these times of world wide crisis, that the world needed him, the smartest man in the world, to survive. With this he takes one and jumps. Next the priest comes forward and explaining that he had lived a long and full life, and that the hippie was young and had a future to look forward to, that the hippie should take the remaining parachute. Before the priest had finished his explanation the hippie put a stop to any remaining dispute . . “No sweat, man, the smartest man in the world just jumped out with my backpack.]
I got to the Brazilian side of the falls and looked around for a while. The falls are about 1 ½ km long, several hundred foot high and are surrounded by trees which both countries have made into national parks. Because of the water there are lots of insects and big butterflies, and to eat these are swallows. The swallows fly through parts of the falls, land on the vertical rockface and flap their wings (so as not to fall) while eating the insects.
Insects, water and trees can only hold my attention for so long however, and after about an hour I caught a bus back into Foz.
Not sure whether I needed a visa for Paraguay or not (my guidebook is written by a Pom living in Australia, who if a visa isn’t needed by Poms, simply writes unnecessary for nationals of most countries) I went to where the Paraguay Consulate was supposed to be, and found a supermarket. I then went to a few travel agents but no one knew the answer. At the bus station I came across a guy selling tickets to Paraguay who spoke a little English (he’d worked in Newcastle, NSW for a year). I did need a visa. He talked me into going East, Noth, then West rather than West, South, Northwest.
This bus didn’t leave until 6 PM, so having 6 hours to kill he talked me into going on a free tour of the hydroelectric plant about 10 km out of town (one of the biggest in the world). I sort of wanted to go to Puerto Strauss (a duty free Paraguay border town – no need for a visa if returning same day) and since the bus left from the same stop I was going to take the first bus which came along. It was for Puerto Strauss but choc-a-block. The was also P.S. but it too was full. The next one was to P.S. and since it had standing room I started to get on, then I saw three girls, obviously Gringos, come up tot eh stop. I decided maybe the power station would be interesting after all. It wasn’t. The girls were German but didn’t speak English. I was put in the wrong film room and had to watch a P.R. film standing up for 45 minutes in Portuguese. Everyone then piled out to the buses: 5 companies, 15 tour operators (the hydroelectric plant doesn’t charge for the tours, the travel agent for a bus ride there and back charge about $10.) And we went on a dusty 15 minute ride to the dam and back. The problem with free tours is, you can’t demand your money back!
My bus and I left Foz at 6 PM and arrived in Carcaval at 8 PM. At 8:30 PM I caught a bus to Comp Grande and arrived at 7 AM. At 8 AM I caught one to Corumbia the Brazilian/Bolivian border town.
This last bus was interesting as it went through the swamps and we saw crocodiles sunning themselves on the riverbanks (we also had to take a couple of ferries) and lots of birds, mostly cranes.
As usual the bus stopped every 2 hours for drink and food at roadside “diners”, sort of. In Brazil lunches are the biggest meal of the day, it is served at noon.
At this particular place the food looked good so I ate there. This was quite a decision because I usually only eat once a day and so I was bestowing quite an honor on the establishment.
I wasn’t that hungry, so I went up and just asked for some rice, and a Pepsi. The guy didn’t understand me, he brought me the “Plato do dias,” and a Pepsi.
The meal consisted of a bean stew, lettuce/tomato salad, potato/carrots/beans salad, rice, baked yams, tomato/onion/not sure what salad. All of these were served on separate plates, a plate to eat off of was also supplied (this was perhaps the smallest plate – the servings were huge). While eating this the chef came around with skewered hunks of meat that had been cooked over an open fire, six or seven times he came to each table offering slabs of meat, each different (chicken, pork, beef, lamb and 2-3 others I’d rather not know about.)
The problem with a feast this size is that you feel like a guts with a table full of food in front of you, so you quickly eat as much as you can, usually a plate at a time so the waiter removes it. You soon get to the stage where you’d normally get up and walk away, but with ¾ of the food still left that’s impossible. Then comes the stage where you can rapidly feel that it won’t be long before you will not be able to eat anymore so you do as the natives do, lower your head to within an inch of the plate and start shoveling it in. You soon get to know when you’ve had enough, it’s that feeling that for each spoonful that goes in from this point on, ten or so will come out. So as not to deafeat the purpose of the momentous task achieved (to leave as little as possible so as to not insult the chef – you know it’s not greed, for you passed that stage about 2 ½ plates before) you leave quickly, hoping the chef appreciates the sacrifice youv’e just made, and also leaving enough food behind so as the uninitiated think you’ve hardly touched your food and that you eat like a bird.
I’ve yet to see anyone finish one of these meals. Usually 2 people order one between them and still leave stacks. It’s a good size for 3 people at $4 (this one was more expensive than most because of the meat, usually $2 to $2.50).
I got to Corumbia at 4 PM. Found a hotel then wandered around the strets. There was some sort of festival on with lots of explosions and some kids dressed as sort of Goofy, Mickey Mouse, etc. look alikes.
The next morning I went to the police station to get my Brazilian exit stamp. I had overstayed my permitted time (I’d stayed 20 days instead of 10 – the visa said 90 days but immigration had only given me ten.)
They sent me to the Federal Police. Here I had a statement taken (he didn’t speak English, I didn’t speak Portuguese – somehow we got a fully typed page?) It mainly consisted of where I’d been, and for how long, and why I’d overstayed my allotted time.
I then signed four papers and had my fingerprints taken. This was done at the staff cafeteria, next to the jail cell. When my prints had been done, I looked toward the jail. He suddenly said, “No, no no” then seeing I was smiling added, “Oh, Australiano, tttt!” and laughed. I then had to wait around for the bank to open, at 11:30 AM, so I could pay my fine, $25. While I was waiting around I found an internacional telephone office and phoned Deb.
At 11:40 the bank opened, about 200 of us jostling for 6 positions. Luckily I got in the right queue, paid my fine, took the bank statement back to the Feds, swapped it for my passport, found the Bolivian embassy and got a visa ($24) from it before it shut at noon.
I went back to my hotel, grabbed my stuff, then took a local bus to the frontier. Somehow I missed the stop, or the bus didn’t go there, and found myself back at the bus terminal. I decided to take a taxi.
The taxi driver wanted $10 for the trip. I got him down to $3.75 after mentioning the bus fare a few times and walking off 3 times.
The journey took a little longer than expected (he stopped a couple of times to chat up girls) but I did get there. The only problem was the fare was back up to $7.50 dropping slowly to $6, he then offered to make it an even $5. I couldn’t’ believe it, Egypt again! He took $3.75, although it was difficult getting him to change the $5!
The railway station was about 3 km from the border, I walked along the tracks so as not to miss it. When I got there the train was about to leave. I had only Brazilian cruzerios, no Bolivian pesos. I expected them to accept the cruzerios but they wouldn’t. One guy took my money (to change it). I followed him. He got 30 million pesos for the 1250 cruzeiros ($30). For this achievement he wanted 5 million pesos (my lowest note.) I gave him some Brazilian money, instead I think he’d have preferred pesos. I knew something was wrong as the money changer had put 33 into the calculator and no matter how you do it .. . 1250 ? 33 does not equal 30 million, but all I wanted was to catch the train.
The station was like a zoo. No one would sell me a ticket, they told me to get on the train and buy it there. I went to the train but without a ticket couldn’t stay on it. I went back to the station, back to the train, station, then gave up, got on the train determined they’d have to kick me off. A girl saw me going backward and forward, obviously distressed, so she followed me onto the train. I told her I didn’t have a ticket, she wanted to know who I’d given the money to. It’s illegal in Bolivia to change money on the street (station or whatever) so thinking she was a cop or something I denied giving anyone money. She then asked, if I hadn’t given someone money for a ticket, and not received it, what was the problem? She went on to tell me that I could buy a ticket from the conductor, she found me a seat, and having received a compliment from me on her English, she left, both of us happier than we’d been moments before.
The train left about an hour after I’d found my seat and the conductor soon checked tickets. He sold me two paper tickets instead of a cardboard one everybody else had, but I was assured it was okay by a guy opposite. The train stopped at a station where the platform had many women serving food out of big pots (chicken, rice, spaghetti, veggies.) I got a platter full for 3 million pesos (it was hard to justify spending 3 million anything on a meal but since I hadn’t eaten that day I forked out the moolah. This left me with 6 million pesos as the ticket had cost 20 million and a bottle of mineral water 1.) Not much happened until at 2 AM when the tickets were checked. I’d given mine to the conductor earlier and he’d kept them. I tried to explain I’d paid, the guy across form me tried to explain I’d paid, but I still had to buy another ticket. They sold me one to San Jose (I was going to Santa Cruz) it cost me 6 million. The rest of the trip I lived iwt the fear of a ticket check and being thrown off in the middle of nowhere, some small place that thought American Express was a train or something.
When the tickets were checked I ignored them and some others who were sitting with me pointed to their father, so I guess they thought I was with them.
Having no money meant no food or water. The wife of the guy across from me bought me a cake and drink, their 3 yo. daughter gave me one of her lollies.
At Santa Cruz I walked from the railway station toward town. Three hours later when I found myself back at the station I decided to take a taxi. I got him to wait while I changed some travellers cheques at the Casa de Cambio which he’d driven me to, then paid him.
Being a little thirsty, I drank about 2 litres of drink on the way to the bus terminal and another 1 litre while waiting for my bus to La Paz (the capital.)
Things in Bolivia are expensive! A litre of Coke $1.20 – 60 cents in Brazil, the bus ticket to La Paz $23. I was going to buy some more clothes but sneakers are $20/pair. I’ll give a miss.
The exchange rate is $1.00 to $1.5 million pesos, so I think that the government must be regulating the blackmarket as that is the rate it was in early 1986, and the Bolivians don’t seem to mind the prices too much.
My bus left Santa Cruz at 6 PM. It was a delux Pullman coach apparently one of the best Bolivia has to offer. It was awful. We were crammed in, people were sleeping in the aisle. To make things worse, the road was very rough. I was sitting on one of the back seats. Every decent bump sent me towards the roof. I would have got 2 hours sleep, maximum. (This was better than the train the night before. It had 2nd class, 1st class, and Pullman. I was in Pullman, most expensive, least packed. I was sitting alone, three guys came wanting to talk so they swung the seats around, facing each other. That cut the leg room in half. What with the conductors, musicians, babies crying and people shining their torches around, it was impossible. I crawled under a seat so I could sleep. My legs were sticking out, and everyone that passed seemed to step on me, kick me or at least spill a drink on me. I decided no sleep was preferable to being beaten up.)
I got to Cochamba at 8 AM, my bus from there to La Paz, I was told when buying the through ticket, would leave at 8:45. It did but it was PM not AM. I spent the day wandering around the town, looking for a post office to send off the postcards I’d had since Rio. I didn’t find one. I then went to play some pinball machines - at 16 cents a game it’s reasonable.
The Bolivian women here are really unusual in that they look the same as any photo you will see in an encyclopedia. They are all quite rotund, most wearing black cloths, a mutli-coloured shawl (often with a baby in there somewhere) and most wear bowler hats. These women are 35 y.o. +. They also sit on the footpath selling anything and everything from unripe tomatoes to ripe ones (and toothbrushes, razor blades, this pen I’m writing with, etc.)
I caught the bus to La Paz at 8:45 PM and after a very cold night (I ended up getting the hammock out and wrapping myself in it) arrived at 5:30 AM. I walked straight to the hotel area, found a hotel for $3.60 a single, then waited for about ½ an hour for my room to become unoccupied . . . After a hot shower and a few hours sleep I was reading for Goingoing. I set off down through the Indian markets to the city centre. I was looking for the Peruvian embassy for a visa, but as usual, it wasn’t where my book showed it to be. I asked several people where it was, including some soldiers, policemen and women, and civilians, but each time I got a different answer, each wrong.
At 12:30 I found the place (a travel agent had known the answer) but as it closed for lunch at 12-12:30 I decided to return later after I, myself, had eaten. I went to a place called Marilins, which had 4 course meals for $1.80 (up from 90 cents since my guide was written.) The meal ended up being a small salad, soup, meat and rice, and grapefruit which for $1.80 was okay.
I found myself back at the embassy at 2:30 PM but it wasn’t open. I waited until 3 PM then asked at a travel agents next door. The embassy was a little late in opening, the consulate (the place which issues visas) had closed at 1 PM and wouldn’t open again until 9 AM, the next morning.
The next day I arrived at the consulate at 9 AM, as it was opening. The receptionist needed my passport, a ticket out of Peru, and $5 US.
A passport I had. For the ticket out of Peru I gave her my return ticket, Apex flight, Caracas, Venezuela to New York. Although almost one month out of date she accepted this! The US $5 I didn’t have so I had to change some Bolivars for dollars on the street, losing about 5% in the deal. I went back to the Consulate with the money and was told to return at 12 noon.
At 12 I was at the consulate, at 12:30 I had my visa, and my plane ticket.
I had met an Australian couple in the waiting room of the consulate. We had lunch at Marilins together. After lunch I went to the bus station and bought a ticket to Puno (Peru) which cost me $20. For he rest of the day I wandered around La Paz looking at the sights (a museum whose visitors book listed Ronald Reagan Jr 3 names ahead of mine), the markets, posting letters, and generally exhausting myself (at 3600m [2 miles high] La Paz is the world’s highest capital and it’s very easy to get headaches due to the lack of oxygen.)
I went to bed early only to be woken at 11 Pm by a knocking on my door. Thinking it was a drunk I ignored it. But the knocking persisted so I go tup and answered it. At the door was my hotel manager and a guy I hadn’t seen before. The guy had come to tell me to catch the bus (to Puno) in front of a large hotel down the road instead of the bus terminal. It saved me a 20 minute walk uphill so of course I agreed. He told me the same information 3 or 4 more times then left.
I got the bus outside the hotel as arranged, although it was an hour late. Not being assigned a ticket, it was every gringo for himself. I got in the bus before most. Picking up on what the locals do, some people had left one of their belongings on a seat to reserve it. A girl had left her bag on a seat behind mine. I was watching people putting their backpacks on the roof then suddenly saw a guy looking through the girl’s bag. As I saw him, he saw me, the girl get back on the bus also saw him. He put the bag down, picked up his broom (he was supposed to be cleaning the bus) and went on as if nothing had happened. The girl looked through her bag, found nothing missing. Her boyfriend, working out what had happened as he was getting on the bus, asked her if the camera was still there, at eth same time clenching his fist, about to clobber the guy. Nothing ended up happening.
The guy was Australian, the girl New Zealand. On the bus a piece of paper was handed around, with the usual spaces to be filled: name, age, nationality, passport number, marital status, profession. Seeing there was another Aussie on board the bus, the guy behind me discussed with his girlfriend which person it was. They decided on a German at the front of the bus.
We had to get off the bus near the Bolivian/Peru border to cross Lake Titicaca on a ferry. The driver announced this in Spanish as we stopped. The Aussie, knowing even less Spanish than me, in a desperate attempt called out, “Does anyone know what he just said? . . . In English!” A Swiss guy next to him explained. On the ferry I went up to him and talked. He said he thought it might have been me, because I was wearing a flannelette shirt. The two of them were stopping at Copacabana (a small lakeside resort) for day. At Copacabana we swapped buses. I went to a small minibus with 3 English and 1 American girls. At Copacabana I had lunch with two Germans (the Aussie and his friend). We arranged to meet at a hotel in Puno then went on separate buses.
At the border I was retained for not having an entrance stamp on my passport. At the Brazil/Bolivian border I’d just walked through. A guard had stopped me, looked at the visa, then let me through. As usual money changed hands, $3 for each day I’d “illegally” been in Bolivia, I was given an exit stamp and allowed to go. The money was probably divided up amongst the 3 “officials.” I’d had $30.3 Bolivars, the fine was 30 Bolivars. I had about 20 cents left!
About two hours out of Puno the bus picked up more people. Next me sat a teacher (of sorts) who spoke as much English as I speak Spanish. Over the following 2 hours he told me about a fiesta which was on in Puno, about the poverty of farmers, and asked me which hotel I was staying in; it was pretty slow going! In Puno the bus took me right to the hotel. I checked in then went to find a cambrio to change some travellers cheques. Being Saturday night none were open. I had to change at a travel agents, at a poorer rate.
There was a large market so I decided to try to get some shoes (mine had the soles coming off and were really smelly). I couldn’t find any to fit. I’m a size 44, the locals are up to 41. This was a pity because they were only about $6 for sneakers.
That evening I had dinner with the Germans at a cheap restaurant called the “Internacional.” I
had spicy trout and vegetables for about $1! The service at this restaurant is really slow. You sit down, and wait. As the waiters walk past you get their attention. They acknowledge you and keep walking. You decide to get a menu yourself from the neighbouring table (it’s a very popular place – the food is terrific, the prices low so it’s always full) and work out exactly what you want. Then each time the waiter goes past you try to get him to take your order. Finally you wear him down. He asks what you’ll have to drink, you tell him, and he leaves. 20 minutes later the drinks arrive. While he’s putting them on the table you bombard him with your order. He can’t ignore this, so out comes the pad. Everything is written out longhand so it takes 3 or 4 minutes for him to take the 3 orders. Half an hour later 2 of the 3 plates arrive, the 3rd soon arrives. The food is delicious and is eaten relatively quickly. We then sat around trying to get the waiter to accept the money for the meal. This was no easier than getting the food. After 20 minutes we go downstairs, recite what we’ve eaten, then pay! A total of over 2 hours.
We walked around looking for the fiesta, only to find out it was the day before. The bearer of this bad news, a solider, did have a suggestion for a back up though. Apparently there was a large disco, which according to his expression and hand signals, was about to be busted by his unit for everything from cocaine handouts to underage sex on the dance floor. We decided to give it a miss.
The next day the Germans left for Arequipa (a seaside resort) by plane. I decided I’d go to the floating islands of Los Uros. I went down to the dock and met an Italian and Spaniard. (I’d seen them briefly at Santa Cruz.) They were going to Los Uros also but were waiting for the passengers to number 10, I made number 3. We waited and waited trying to talk any gringos that were just passing into coming along. Finally, the boat owner said the minimum was 6 people, but we were unable to get that many.
In the end we got on a different bota which cost a bit more ($5 instead of $4) but it left fairly quickly. Apart from us there were 2 French travelers and about 10 Bolivians.
It took about an hour to reach the island, where we were greeted by about 50 children all under 5 y.o. the island is just floating mass of reeds which bounce under your feet. As those underneath rot more are pout on top so as to keep above the water level.
Indians have lived on the island and others similar for many generations, living off fish and birds and occasionally trading with those on the mainland. These days the men work on the mainland, the women make mats and scarves for tourists and the kids sell drawings, stuffed ducks on a raft ($1 US) and generally try to get money out of you any way possible, i.e. begging, getting in your photos, etc.
We got back to Puno around 2 PM then went to the train station to get tickets for the train to Cuzco for the next day. One and a quarter hours later we had our tickets. I had lunch with the Italian and Spaniard at the Internacional then ewnt to ese the Golden Child with Eddie Murphy (50 cents).
In the evening I went out with the French couple for dinner (at the usual.) As I was leaving I saw the Aussie/Kiwi couple. He’d finished his meal, she was still waiting for hers to arrive. We then went to a place for a drink (the waiter had forgotten them at the Internacional and it was getting too late to reorder them.) It had musicians in national dress, playing pan flute, guitar, llama skin drum, and ukelele?
The next morning I caught the train bound for Cuzco. I sat next to a Pakistani and opposite another French couple (they’d been at the place with the musician one table away and were very friendly.) The Pakistani had just come from the Galapagos Islands and the French were on the way so that filled in one hour of conversation. The trip was 12 hours long and I was feeling very well (flu & diarrhea). So it was a long trip. Across the aisle was an American who’d been at the same table as I for dinner the night before. He was about 60 y.o. and had come to Bolivia to learn Spanish. He was talking to a guy in the US Army, originally from Cuba, now working in Panama, and his wife and mother-in-law. Further up the train was a priest who was leading a sing song of hymns alternating from English to Spanish which eventually turned to Beatles numbers. A guard carrying a submachine gun initially kept everyone on their toes but soon everyone was at ease as we watched him do a dance using the machine gun as a partner.
At every station people would come on the train to sell jumpers, gloves, mats, model llamas, etc. About an hour out of Cuzco, people got on the train to sell hotel rooms. I got one for 100 inti ($3.30) and a ride rom the station to the hotel. It turned out to be a good deal as the posted price is $6.
My first day in Cuzco I spent just looking around. I met the Italian and we changed some money with a guy we met on the street who took us to a café. The rate for travellers cheques was 5% better than Puno and 12% better than banks offer.
I then bought some postcards and sent them off home, had breakfast, and arranged to meet the Italian and Juan at 11:30 before going to some ruins. I got there around 12 they’d gone.
I found some shoes for $7 which are a little small but the biggest available. I also bought a ticket for a national dance and music performance. I can use it any night. I then had lunch (rice and stew and Pepsi) which set me back 57 cents.
In the next few days I’ll see Macchu Piccu and a few ruins and maybe the Inca Trail. Anyway I’ll write again soon. – Peter
Quimby’s notes: Peter did go to Macchu Piccu. I believe that was where he missed the return plane. He had to wait about a week for the next plane. He had next to no money because all of his traveller’s cheques were in his bag, and his bag was on the plane. What had happened was he had been told that the plane wasn’t leaving for quite some time, so he’d gotten off to take a walk. When he got back the plane was already gone. He somehow managed to make it through the next several days, until the next plane came. He assumed everything was lost, but when he got to the airport, a fellow backpacker was waiting there with his pack. He’d figured out what had happened when Peter missed the plane, and had gone to the airport every day trying to find him. This was the last day he could go to the airport because he was leaving later on that same day. Nothing was missing; the backpacker had protected his bag for nearly a week.
This is the only letter I could find from Peter’s South American trip. I remember he told me about another train ride in South America where they went into a long tunnel, and when they came out of it, a man had his hand in Peter’s bag, holding on to Peter’s traveller’s cheques.
Peter bought a small statue in South America. I’m not sure where. In Colombia the border guards broke it open. They thought he had cocaine inside of it. He didn’t. I still have half the statue; I don’t know what happened to the bottom half.
When we were in Queenstown, Tasmania, Peter got very quiet and finally said that the descent down to Queenstown reminded him of a train ride he’d taken in South America. (The quiet was because he was trying to remember where it was.) It was a city that was nestled in a valley and the train had to go back and forth to get up the mountain, on very steep switchblades, going very slowly, with the drop-off just outside the train window. He told me where it was but I can’t remember. If anyone has been there or if he also told you the story, could you please tell me where it was?
Peter had a lot more South American adventures than these. Later on, in Brazil, he rode a hammock on the back of a truck on the back of a ferry down the Amazon. That is where he contracted chagas disease. He slept for about a month, only getting up occasionally to get a drink and then collapsing back into bed. About one-third of the time Chagas disease leads to cardio problems later on in life, including, most commonly, cardiac arrest. I like to think that it was the Chagas disease that got him in the end, because I know if you'd told him then that he could go on this adventure, but he'd die when he was 54, he'd think it was well worth it.
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