This time, the tour bus came to our doorstep. Jill had found a cheap company running box vans to Arequipa…Peru's second-largest city, and therefore a more popular transit point than Puno. We greeted our driver, Oscar, and took our place behind a French guy and his whiny teenage children. We found their insolence nearly intolerable, taking the "you don’t know how fortunate you are to get to go to Peru" view. Then, in another example of youthful rebellion, the road ahead was blocked by a slew of large stones in the street, placed by disillusioned students. Oscar shrugged and apologized to us. He said, “I don’t even know why they’re upset. They don’t know how fortunate they are to get to go to college.” With no police in the vicinity, the situation looked like a stalemate. Oscar pulled a u-ey and eventually we were on the highway crossing the high plain.
Our pit stops weren’t as exciting as the ones on the way to Puno. We stopped for a photo op at Lagunillas, a mirror-still lake with flocks of flamingoes, took a bathroom break at an off-ramp overlook and ate lunch at a Peruvian equivalent of Stuckey’s. From there, the Frenchman and his enfants terribles boarded a bus to Colca Canyon, a well-known hiking destination that we did not have the time or will for at that point in the trip. Motoring on, the land became more arid. Oscar began pointing out roaming bands of vicunas. A giant cinder-capped mountain rose from the desert floor. It was Peru’s most famous volcano, El Misti, and beyond it sat our destination. The steep descent into Arequipa was full of switchbacks, and littered with wooden crosses to remember those who’ve died taking a curve head-on. Our first glimpse of the valley was at a place called Yura, which had a colossal concrete plant that blanketed the surrounding village in ashen dust.
Like Lima, Arequipa has a sprawling, could-be-anywhere feel about it when you don’t factor in the surrounding geography. Consumerism has hit the city hard, and with no Inca ruins in the middle of town, the place has a more prosperous Euro atmosphere. Oscar dropped us off at a gated complex a couple of miles from the central plaza. We had made a reservation, but unbeknownst to us, that reservation had been canceled by the hotel via e-mail in the wee hours of that morning. The lady on premises begged us to patron her sister property instead, which we knew nothing about. Jill looked up the best-reviewed hotel nearby. We stepped into a cab while she was still trying to convince us to spend money at her other hotel. Later, she had the audacity to charge us for the reservation, although it she was the one who canceled it without 24 hours’ notice. (The charge was successfully contested and refunded, by the way.)
With only a matter of hours left in Peru together, I had no problem splurging on accommodations, especially after a handful of nights sleeping in the freezing cold. Our new spotless digs sat in a primo location, and offered the best complimentary breakfast of any place I’d paid for a bed. Jill and I used Arequipa as a spot to relax, catching up on souvenir shopping and postcard writing. We did, however, hit the town’s #1 attraction, and it was well worth it. The Monastery of Santa Catalina is a walled city within a city that once housed hundreds of cloistered nuns. From 1580 until 1970, Santa Catalina was a microcosm locked away from the rest of the world. Today, most of the over 215,000 sq. ft. compound is a museum. I found it generally creepy, in an Exorcist kind of way…but it was fascinating. The monastery even produced its own saint, the Blessed Ana de los Angeles Monteagudo, around whom a local cult has formed. One of the weirdest things I witnessed was the bottled tongue of a deceased priest who willed it to rest in the late sister’s quarters.
As one might expect, Arequipa is not without its share of fine dining. We went out for not one, but two fancy suppers. The first at an Argentine steakhouse, and the second at a two-story place with a spiral staircase designed by none other than Gustav Eiffel. Again, I climbed iron steps designed by France’s most famous architect, but this time it was about 1,000 fewer.
Our flight from Arequipa to Lima was uneventful, and unimpeded by the fog all too common at both origin and destination. Neither of us seemed over the moon about returning to the capital and closing out our trip, but we were determined to make the most of our last two days, and anxious to see Barranco, a neighborhood just south of Miraflores. After so much time spent reading travel guides, a red flag should’ve arose when I read the adjective “Bohemian” to describe Barranco. If I’ve learned anything, this arty term is guidebook code for “dirty.” Perhaps we wouldn’t have known better if we hadn’t stayed in a posh Miraflores flat prior, but the Barranco neighborhood and our “Bohemian” homestay were disappointing.
Only two activities were left in Lima that appealed to us. The first was a unanimous must-do, and that was to eat at one of the handful of restaurants run by world-renown chef Gaston Acurio. The other was something that took a little more time to think about, and that was paragliding. We’d seen the “Paraport” on our first day in Peru. It looked cool enough for me to instantly reach for my camera. Now, three weeks later, we discussed taking flight ourselves. In order to fly, a 9+ mph updraft must be blowing from the ocean. We were basically “on-call” for the day. We received a green light from the parasailing company, but the day was foggy and gray. We decided to postpone.
Our last day in Lima was bright and sunny. The weather was perfect. We went to the grocery and had a picnic in Parque Kennedy. We walked over to the Paraport, sat on a bench, and watched people leap from the cliff, one after another, like lemmings. After a second or two out of sight, a chute would come back into view, and ascend above the cosmopolitan high-rise apartment buildings. Jill and I debated whether or not we should step into the long line. With a lot of persuasion (or rather, begging), Jill agreed to take the plunge with me, in a manner of speaking. Although we both went tandem with different pilots, paragliding ranks highly in my opinion of possible Peruvian pastimes. It offers the best view in Lima – above the buildings but lower than the aircraft, with nothing to obstruct the panorama but a handful of cord.
That night, we walked through Miraflores to Gaston Acurio’s restaurant, Panchita. The style is Andean home-cooking, but the atmosphere is as uptown as it gets. Because ya gotta go big before ya go home, I ordered the most exquisite delicacy on the menu, slow-roasted 21 day-old suckling pig.
Peru was the Cool Whip atop my pumpkin pie of a trip. I’m glad that I got to end my time overseas in a country that I never got tired with. Of all the nations I visited, I would say that Peru was the best value for my money.
After five continents and dozens of countries, my fears of being stabbed in a back alley, or having my pack nicked from the roof of a bus, or contracting malaria all proved irrational. As I caught up on episodes of Modern Family I’d missed using the in-flight entertainment system, part of me was happy to be on my way back to the USA. But, another part of me wished that I could just keep travelling.
