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Published: August 25th 2011
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Dawn is breaking as we walk out of the domestic bus terminal in Arica, Chile´s northernmost town and gateway to Peru. We´re as bit suspicious of the directions we´ve just been given for crossing the border - "turn right out of the station and keep walking". But it turns out we are only walking as far as the international terminal, not Peru.
Two forms of transport take passengers from the international terminal across the border to Peru - buses and collectivos. The latter are essentially shared taxis - big cars that charge a fixed price fare to multiple passengers. We´re desperate to crack on, having already done an all-night bus journey from San Pedro, so we search all our pockets in the hope of finding enough shrapnel to get a collectivo. We sit in a quiet corner of the station to count our Chilean coppers and are relieved to find that we have just enough. Peru, here we come.
We squidge into a car and, rather begrudgingly, hand over our passports to our driver. But our fellow passengers seem relaxed so we assume it´s routine. Indeed, within 20 minutes he returns not only with our passports but also with
all our visa forms duly completed. The 30 minute drive to the border takes us through a barren no mans land before barbed wire compounds signal our approach to the checkpoint. Our driver continues to play mother goose as he parks up and leads his five passengers to the immigration queue. He shoos away any new arrivals who try to push in and he equips us with the right forms at the rights desks. Before too long, he´s driving us to Tacna in Peru, from where we hope to get our final bus to Arequipa.
Peru´s relative poverty is immediately apparent - more beggars, more touts, and things are generally more run down. The bus ride is a bit grim, with uncomfortable seats and barely any leg room (Peruvians are generally short). Our discomfort is compounded by the films of extreme violence being played at full volume. We´re often distracted from the grimness by the constant stream of peddlers who get on the bus every half an hour or so and try and sell breads, soft drinks and pasties. We´re nevertheless relieved when we finally pull in to Arequipa some seven hours later. And man, the city is pulling
out of the stops for our arrival by putting in a huge carnival. The streets around the main square have been cleared of cars and filled instead with marching bands and dancers. The city is draped in colour, a four day public holiday announced, and the streets are jam-packed with locals partying. We´re touched. Thank you Arequipa. Thank you Peru.
The first clue that the party isn't just for our benefit comes when the first hostel we try turns us away on the grounds of being full. The second and third do the same. It seems our arrival coincides with the annual celebrations for the foundation of the city. People have come from miles around to join the party. Luckily we do manage to find a room in the end and have the chance to explore our surroundings. Arequipa is a beautiful city. The grand old colonial buildings built from the pearly-white volcanic rock are bought to life by the vibrant colour of new and old Peru. The main square, teeming with life, is reminiscent of the streets of modern Barcelona but, as with so many Andean cities, a volcano looms large over the proceedings. This is a city
we can imagine many of our friends and family wanting to come to relax.
Being at altitude again, we spend a day or two taking it easy - we research options for trekking, download new books for the kindle, and enjoy some of the local restaurants. Oh, and there´s the carnival of course...The sheer randomness and joyfulness of our first South American carnival is hard to get across. It is physically impossible to find space on the street, but we luckily have a good view of the parade from the balcony of our hostel. There are hundreds of troupes of both male and female dancers - seemingly more than the population of the city itself. They are supported by huge brass bands and thumping bass drums, whose output wavers between the insanely annoying and compulsive dance-inducing. The dancing itself is interspersed with huge carnival floats that are decorated according to their sponsors´preferences. Beauty kings and queens seem to be general crowd pleasers, but nothing is as popular as the brewer´s float from which free pisco is liberally sprayed onto very happy bystanders (and over the buildings and streets...). We fall asleep to the boom of fireworks, with each rocket
explosion followed by the gentle smattering of cracked paint as it hits the floor under the weight of the reverberations.
In the relative calm of the day, we take to the tourist highlights - we walk through the pleasant parks, take in views of El Misti, and spend hours walking the surreal but beautiful labyrinthian lanes of the Santa Catalina monastery, which for centuries has provided a closeted other-world for nuns. We´re also treated to a free city tour from the guide who will be taking us trekking in the Colca Canyon in a few days time. Its an eclectic tour covering the history and significance of the city´s main plaza, as well as the culinary delights of the local food markets. We won´t provide here the details of how the frog juice is made, but think the worst and you´ll be nearly there. We politely turn down the offers of the hearts and tongues of various beasts, as well as the weird concoctions marketed as Inca viagra. We didn´t even invest in any of the wonderful and bizarre traditional good luck charms shown to us. Personally, we feel lucky enough to have emerged from the market without having
had any of our vital organs lanced, boiled, and blended into a cocktail.
Anyway, we´re off for an early night - the bus picks us up for our trek at 3am tomorrow. Our next update is dependent on us making it back in one piece...
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