- have longer hair than usual
- wearing a headband
- sunglasses pushed up over head like headband
- small shirt than normal, often a sports jersey type, also often sleeveless
- short shorts
- man purse
WOMEN:
- really long hair
- with an Israeli man
Saturday, September 03, 2005
how to spot an Israeli
MEN:
WOMEN:
WOMEN:
the great taste-off
Inka Cola is a bright yellow, bubble-gum flavored soft drink. It is the Bebida Nacional of Peru. It is more popular than Coca Cola in this country. It is at once both disgusting and delicious. It has many, many knock-offs.
One knock-off that we keep seeing on the southern coast is called Don Isaac. We think this is hilarious, because who names a soda after a person? And who the hell is Don Isaac? Not exactly a Peruvian name. Not so much a Spanish name, either. Don Isaac is half the price of Inka Cola, and exactly the same highlighter hue. We purchase a bottle of each.
We open the bottles and toast. We count down from three, and take a sip of one. Then we take a sip of the other. Then we go back to the first. And to the second. We intertwine arms and sip, as if we are holding champaign glasses at our wedding. Or shot glasses at a skanky bar. We pose the bottles together and take pictures. THEY TASTE IDENTICAL.
Thus we spend our afternoon, drinking yellow soda and eating pan con manjar. The manjar has become our chief condiment, nay, our cheif entree. I know it is only sugar and milk, but boy, is it good. And boy, is it plentiful here.
One knock-off that we keep seeing on the southern coast is called Don Isaac. We think this is hilarious, because who names a soda after a person? And who the hell is Don Isaac? Not exactly a Peruvian name. Not so much a Spanish name, either. Don Isaac is half the price of Inka Cola, and exactly the same highlighter hue. We purchase a bottle of each.
We open the bottles and toast. We count down from three, and take a sip of one. Then we take a sip of the other. Then we go back to the first. And to the second. We intertwine arms and sip, as if we are holding champaign glasses at our wedding. Or shot glasses at a skanky bar. We pose the bottles together and take pictures. THEY TASTE IDENTICAL.
Thus we spend our afternoon, drinking yellow soda and eating pan con manjar. The manjar has become our chief condiment, nay, our cheif entree. I know it is only sugar and milk, but boy, is it good. And boy, is it plentiful here.
Nazca
We intend to get out of the combi to climb up the mirador and try to see the Nazca lines. Oops, we miss it. The combi just keeps on driving, and it's not like we have asked to be let off at a well-marked spot. We also can't do much, like request to turn around and find our spot, since there are at least fifteen other people in the vehicle. We content ourselves with our view from the window, which is not much. We can sort of make out that there may be rocks pushed around on the pampa floor, but by no means can we distinguish shapes.
In Nazca, we walk back and forth between bus companies comparing prices and departure times. We would like to bus out of here to Arequipa overnight. The buses in this country are all privatized, so there are always many options. You have to shop around. We walk back and forth for half an hour, with our packs, past the same restaurants. And each time, the same Peruvians call out to us to patronize their shop. Cheap! Americans! Ten Soles! For you, eight Soles! Lady! Each time, we are not interested. We eventually settle on Ormeno business class, which promises reclining seats and a bathroom. The bus leaves at ten pm, which gives us enough time to eat, internet, and return to the mirador.
In one of the bus stations, we speak to two travelers who have just flown over the Nazca lines. They are incredibly airsick, and I am SO glad that we opted not to spend money on a plane ride. It is here that we also meet our first American friend, a Californian, no less.
The convenience store we choose is decidedly not near the yelling Peruvians. An old lady and a fat man attempt to serve us, but they apparently don't know Spanish. We ask for very simple things, a single Don Isaac and a single Inka Cola (they are both yellow soft-drinks), and we are given very different items, like plantains and cookies.
We sit on a divider in the middle of the road. This is our favorite spot to rest, in between cars and far from proprietors. On the sidewalk next to us, a man is shimmying up an electric pole with a rope harness he tied himself. He is putting up a wire all by himself. While watching him, I taste my first plantain. It tastes just like a banana. I am a teensy bit disappointed by this, since it is so much larger and pinker than a banana. It is rather phalic, in fact, and we make appropriately crude comments and poses about the fruit. Of course we also take pictures.
In Nazca, we walk back and forth between bus companies comparing prices and departure times. We would like to bus out of here to Arequipa overnight. The buses in this country are all privatized, so there are always many options. You have to shop around. We walk back and forth for half an hour, with our packs, past the same restaurants. And each time, the same Peruvians call out to us to patronize their shop. Cheap! Americans! Ten Soles! For you, eight Soles! Lady! Each time, we are not interested. We eventually settle on Ormeno business class, which promises reclining seats and a bathroom. The bus leaves at ten pm, which gives us enough time to eat, internet, and return to the mirador.
In one of the bus stations, we speak to two travelers who have just flown over the Nazca lines. They are incredibly airsick, and I am SO glad that we opted not to spend money on a plane ride. It is here that we also meet our first American friend, a Californian, no less.
The convenience store we choose is decidedly not near the yelling Peruvians. An old lady and a fat man attempt to serve us, but they apparently don't know Spanish. We ask for very simple things, a single Don Isaac and a single Inka Cola (they are both yellow soft-drinks), and we are given very different items, like plantains and cookies.
We sit on a divider in the middle of the road. This is our favorite spot to rest, in between cars and far from proprietors. On the sidewalk next to us, a man is shimmying up an electric pole with a rope harness he tied himself. He is putting up a wire all by himself. While watching him, I taste my first plantain. It tastes just like a banana. I am a teensy bit disappointed by this, since it is so much larger and pinker than a banana. It is rather phalic, in fact, and we make appropriately crude comments and poses about the fruit. Of course we also take pictures.
Huacachina
Wake up early.
Go back to sleep.
Wake up again.
Go back to sleep.
Wake up again.
This has got to stop.
Internet, I AM A SANDBOARDER!!! Huacachina is a small lagoon surrounded by ginormous sand dunes, the kind of sand dunes that show up in Webshots. Our LOUD hostel rents us some sandboards, and up we climb. Up we climb. Up we climb. Up we climb.
And then we whooooosh down the dunas. Sandboarding is awesome. When you are standing, strapped into the board, you just feel cool. Alternative-hip cool. And then when you can stay standing while your board drags your body down the hill, you feel even cooler. Despite the fact that I collect several cups of sand in my shoes, socks, and pants, the experience is AWESOME.
Pulse after climbing dunas:
Me: 132
Wade: 120
After two runs (really, there was no way I could claw my way up those heights again), we leave the hostel. I repack my bag. In the trash go my tennis shoes. They were really old Pumas, and they did me well. I brought them on this trip because I knew I could toss them along the way without regret. Sadly, the medicine tupperware got the axe as well. It was just too bulky and heavy. I don´t know what I was thinking when I packed my three point one ounces of medicine in a two pound plastic box. Sorry Abbey, I´ll make it up to you.
We take a taxi to Ica and catch a combi to Nazca just as it is leaving. The luck gods, they are with us again. Although this combi contains less than twenty-one people, it is still a nueva experience because we get to ride up front with the driver. And with our packs. It is a bit squishy. Wade is nearly sitting on the stick shift.
Go back to sleep.
Wake up again.
Go back to sleep.
Wake up again.
This has got to stop.
Internet, I AM A SANDBOARDER!!! Huacachina is a small lagoon surrounded by ginormous sand dunes, the kind of sand dunes that show up in Webshots. Our LOUD hostel rents us some sandboards, and up we climb. Up we climb. Up we climb. Up we climb.
And then we whooooosh down the dunas. Sandboarding is awesome. When you are standing, strapped into the board, you just feel cool. Alternative-hip cool. And then when you can stay standing while your board drags your body down the hill, you feel even cooler. Despite the fact that I collect several cups of sand in my shoes, socks, and pants, the experience is AWESOME.
Pulse after climbing dunas:
Me: 132
Wade: 120
After two runs (really, there was no way I could claw my way up those heights again), we leave the hostel. I repack my bag. In the trash go my tennis shoes. They were really old Pumas, and they did me well. I brought them on this trip because I knew I could toss them along the way without regret. Sadly, the medicine tupperware got the axe as well. It was just too bulky and heavy. I don´t know what I was thinking when I packed my three point one ounces of medicine in a two pound plastic box. Sorry Abbey, I´ll make it up to you.
We take a taxi to Ica and catch a combi to Nazca just as it is leaving. The luck gods, they are with us again. Although this combi contains less than twenty-one people, it is still a nueva experience because we get to ride up front with the driver. And with our packs. It is a bit squishy. Wade is nearly sitting on the stick shift.
Friday, September 02, 2005
end of day two
What a long day. We pack up and catch a bus to Ica, just as it is pulling out of the station. We have us some mean luck, we do. The bus is moving as we walk aboard, and I have to grab ahold of seats as I pass. We walk to the back and dump our packs on some empty seats, taking our own seats across the aisle. Sadly enough people board the bus along the way that we are forced to sit with our packs. Wade is sitting pinned against the seat back with his pack on his lap. I am half sitting / half crouched on my seat with my pack in front of me. My right leg just barely fits in between Wade´s leg and my pack, and my left leg is all bent and pointed skyward, in the manner of gyno stirrups. I try to jam it down, but my pack is too big and in the way. Thus I remain, for twenty minutes. I begin to feel like I have to pee. Not an ideal position.
When the bus pulls into Ica, we flag down a tico-taxi to Huacachina. At this point, pee situation is quite urgent. Tico-taxi drops us off at Hostel de Avida, a COOL, LOUD, RESORTY HOSTEL. SEE HOW LOUD IT IS? I HAVE TO SHOUT.
There is a central, multi-layered plaza with rooms surrounding and overlooking it, and the whole thing feels very open and fresh. There is also a swimming pool. I consider going swimming, but think better of it, as you shouldn´t jump in a dark pool whose cleanliness you didn´t check in the light of day. Wade conks out on the bed, and I write postcards home in faux Spanish.
We take dinner in the hostel, dinner of (surprise!) cheese sandwhich. I must admit here that Thai cheese sandwhiches beat Peru cheese sandwhiches. SO FAR.
This being a COOL, LOUD RESORT, we liquor it up! The national drink of Peru is called a Pisco Sour, and every single food establishment advertises their Pisco Sours with large fonts and loud colors. This COOL, LOUD RESORT is no exception, so we order two and sit on a swingy chair on the pool patio. Pisco Sour is made from Pisco, a locally produced grape brandy, bitters, egg, and sweet & sour. It is OK. We watch our fellow travelors drink and dance, and then go to bed.
What did we learn today?
Wade: It will take him several days to get used to civilization.
Me: Peru has many, many more pineapple products than USA.
When the bus pulls into Ica, we flag down a tico-taxi to Huacachina. At this point, pee situation is quite urgent. Tico-taxi drops us off at Hostel de Avida, a COOL, LOUD, RESORTY HOSTEL. SEE HOW LOUD IT IS? I HAVE TO SHOUT.
There is a central, multi-layered plaza with rooms surrounding and overlooking it, and the whole thing feels very open and fresh. There is also a swimming pool. I consider going swimming, but think better of it, as you shouldn´t jump in a dark pool whose cleanliness you didn´t check in the light of day. Wade conks out on the bed, and I write postcards home in faux Spanish.
We take dinner in the hostel, dinner of (surprise!) cheese sandwhich. I must admit here that Thai cheese sandwhiches beat Peru cheese sandwhiches. SO FAR.
This being a COOL, LOUD RESORT, we liquor it up! The national drink of Peru is called a Pisco Sour, and every single food establishment advertises their Pisco Sours with large fonts and loud colors. This COOL, LOUD RESORT is no exception, so we order two and sit on a swingy chair on the pool patio. Pisco Sour is made from Pisco, a locally produced grape brandy, bitters, egg, and sweet & sour. It is OK. We watch our fellow travelors drink and dance, and then go to bed.
What did we learn today?
Wade: It will take him several days to get used to civilization.
Me: Peru has many, many more pineapple products than USA.
where the sidewalk ends
Eventually, the beach homes give way to sandy desert. We walk and walk and walk on a sidewalk next to the water, talking about LIFE and LOVE and HOLY SHIT WHERE WILL I BE IN FIVE YEARS. We walk and walk and walk, and find ourselves parallel to the Park entrance, only far, far away through the sand. We decide not to pay, and instead to take our sidewalk to the park. Only, it ends. The sidewalk ends. All of a sudden. In the middle of the sand, in the middle of the desert, a mile from shore and a mile from road, the sidewalk simply stops.
We eat another lunch of apples and manjar, apricots, and peanut butter M&Ms. A short discussion later, we are in agreement that we don´t actually have to REACH the Park. We had a great time walking and catching up, we saw some awesome Peruvian desert, and honestly, our efforts were enough to claim that we went there. So, internet, today we went to Paracas National Reserve. It was awesome.
On our way back to Pisco, we catch a combi with twenty-one people inside.
We eat another lunch of apples and manjar, apricots, and peanut butter M&Ms. A short discussion later, we are in agreement that we don´t actually have to REACH the Park. We had a great time walking and catching up, we saw some awesome Peruvian desert, and honestly, our efforts were enough to claim that we went there. So, internet, today we went to Paracas National Reserve. It was awesome.
On our way back to Pisco, we catch a combi with twenty-one people inside.
pisco / paracas
Pisco is a small town. We only spent about ten minutes in Pisco proper, walking through Plaza de Armas and through the market. Wade bought a charming monkey wallet. We found a combi bound for Paracas and hopped on board. Every several hundred feet, the combi would stop and a woman would hand over a straw lunch box through the window to the driver-helper-boy (DHB) with some money. The combi held about fifteen people and twenty-five lunches. As we neared Paracas, the combi would stop every few blocks, and the DHB would hop out with a few lunches and drop them at the security gate of buildings. It was a lunch delivery system!! Peru is awesome!
We are headed to the National Reservation of Paracas, which according to the Good Book, contains wild animals and guano (bird shit!! it´s an export!!). We have a quick lunch of bread and cheese and piña Nutri Grain, then walk through the boardwalk and into a neighborhood in the direction we presume to be the Park. A uniformed policeman informs us that it is too far, but we decide he is in cahoots with the taxi driver to his left, and so ignore him.
We walk and walk and walk, through a neighborhood that leads to beautiful beachfront homes. Do Peruvians have money like this? We imagine they may be condos or timeshares, and discuss the possibility of sitting in their lawns to rest. We continue.
We are headed to the National Reservation of Paracas, which according to the Good Book, contains wild animals and guano (bird shit!! it´s an export!!). We have a quick lunch of bread and cheese and piña Nutri Grain, then walk through the boardwalk and into a neighborhood in the direction we presume to be the Park. A uniformed policeman informs us that it is too far, but we decide he is in cahoots with the taxi driver to his left, and so ignore him.
We walk and walk and walk, through a neighborhood that leads to beautiful beachfront homes. Do Peruvians have money like this? We imagine they may be condos or timeshares, and discuss the possibility of sitting in their lawns to rest. We continue.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)