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Published: March 31st 2006
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No, not some sordid Iberian sexual peccadillo involving a donkey and a large chorizo that one might see advertised in a phonebox (French lessons?, A & O levels?), but rather stringent pedagogy in a language school in Cusco. My memories of school are mixed. The camaraderie of misehaviour always appealed, but the scars of wedgies gone wrong are slow to heal, and I didn't relish the rigour of excercising my mind any more than was sufficient to remain conscious. Still, the prospect of continuing to flounder for the remainder of my South American journey rankled enough to force me back to study.
Day 1 and after inspecting my lodgings and cleaning the contents of the previous occupant's nose from the wall next to my bed, I embarked on a(nother) tour of the city with some ten young nubile female middle Europeans. I sported a wry smirk as I imagined myself embroiled in late night pillow fights with my fellow students, but the coquettish Euros quickly revealed their steel and linguistic aptitude:
Them (in Spanish): Yes, I already speak French, German, Italian and Serbo-Croat fluently. I am here just to polish my diplomatic Spanish in advance of joining the United
Nations.
Me: ¿Que?
Them (in English): I'm combining my lessons with 2 months of working in an orphanage for the disabled. Are you here volunteering too?
Me (flustered): B-b-b-b-ut i'm just travelling to have a laugh and make an arse of myself...
Them (to the next person): ¿Que haces en Cusco?
Nevertheless, despite my rather less worthy agenda, they seemed to accept me and were a thoroughly charming and engaging bunch.
The classes were entertaining, with competent teachers, and lots of laughs amongst the student body. I quickly settled into a routine of getting up late, having brunch at Jack's Cafe (the best breakfast in Cusco - thanks to Tara in the UK for the tip), and then Spanish lesssons and lager in the evening. A very relaxing time - I very much felt that this part of my trip was a welcome interlude to recharge my (colonic) batteries, and I made a deliberate attempt not to burn the candle at both ends. Not drinking much after a couple of weeks with Chris, whose answer to the world's woes seems inevitably and rather sensibly to be 'shall we have a drink?', was just what
Long dead person at Chauchilla cemetery
Humans are transient, but the hairpiece lives on. I needed to regain my confidence in my ability to break wind without catastrophe. This said, my acquaintance with an aging French teacher living in the USA and his nightly acquaintance with a bottle of Jim Beam ensured that my blood alcohol level did not fall dangerously low...
Half way through my brief spell back at school I decided to hoover up another must see and went on a day trip to Nazca, and the famous lines in the sand. I say 'day trip' - I really mean a 32 hour round trip in a bus for 6 hours of aggressive sightseeing. Never again. The bus I opted for was in the luxury category, but this rating did not preclude the misery of sitting next to Peru's fattest and most fragrant man for the outbound journey. Proud of his double title (which he has held since the mid-eighties) and determined to keep his weight up, Signor El Gordo had what the Americans call a 'fanny pack' strapped to his distended gut, and occasionally would delve into it for some sustinence. Usually a piece of candy, but occasionally a lump of smelly cheese or something equally nauseating.
We stopped
A drawing of an astronaut
Locals think it's actually a man with an owl's head. voluntarily from time to time to stretch our legs and to view the impressive 'worst toilet in the world' exhibits on route (Peruvian service stations make Gilbert & George look like simpletons who play with stools - oh hang on...). We also alighted out of necessity on occasion to allow the bus to negotiate tricky rockfalls or stranded battery chicken wagons. Overall the experience was one of the most uncomfortable I can remember, prompting me to (briefly) turn to religion and make promises over my future conduct that I cannot possibly keep. With aching back, beshitted shoes and a resolve never to undertake such an arduous journey again, I arrived in the dustbowel that is Nazca, and stepped onto a plane for the obligatory tour of the lines.
The lines are indeed impressive and by all accounts mysterious. Nobody really knows why they are there. Some say they are are a plea for water, some say they have other ceremonial purposes. Needless to say, they are the most impressive neolithic sand lines I can recall seeing. The pilot had a rather disturbing manner - wrenching the controls of the tiny airplane with extreme force, as if trying to extract
a haunch of guinea pig from Signor El Gordo. He also spoke in an appalling monotone, like the teacher from Ferris Bueller's Day Off ('to the left a hummingbird ... a hummingbird ... to the left a hummingird ... a hummingbird').
Miguel, the town's general fixer and entrepreneur, had one of his minions escort me on a whistle stop tour of Nazca's other notable sites, the Chauchilla cemetary being the most interesting. The harsh desert air mummifies corpses, and the surrounds are littered with the bones of some 5,000 bodies. Some of the bodies have been posed to give you a better idea of what a corpse looks like (duh). A dust devil in the distance completed the eery scene.
The return to Cusco (now the fourth time I have arrived in the town) felt like coming home, and I recuperated with a fry up at Jack's. Oh, the healing power of sausage meat! You can keep your undiscovered amazonian remedies - cheap meat and seasoning (and possibly a hot shower) are the unsung heroes of medicine.
My final week saw me finalising future plans, and wiring fistfuls of money to random companies in Bolivia found over
the internet. I also made an appearance at the various museums of Cusco that had hitherto eluded me, and got to know my fellow students somewhat better.
It was with a wrench that I left Cusco, and the open taxi window caused one of my eyes to moisten somewhat as I sped to the airport - that's the only explanation I can think of. The people were fantastic (Geoffrey, Suzanne, Walter, Elli, Elfa, Anna, Roxanne, Rachel, Libby etc etc), and I could have settled into life in Cusco for many more weeks.
And has my Spanish improved? Well immeasurably, in the sense that I am infinitely more fluent, having started at zero knowledge. I can talk for hours (minutes) about the problems of pollution in London, and make erudite comparisons with other international cities. Unfortunately, I am still unable to book myself a hotel room. Not to worry - it's not as if my next destination, Bolivia, is the poorest of South America's countries and it's scam capital.
Bugger.
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Andria in SF
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yum...
...brains.