All – Page 2 – Chris Preston

Swimming and hospitality on Taquile Day five

The beach Taquile — Our beach on Taquile

Back in the boat we motor on out into the clear water of the lake towards Taquile Island. Our guide tells us that officially the people are Catholics, but revert to Inca Customs when they need to. Taquile is one of the larger inhabited islands on Lake Titicaca and our guide’s family still lives there.

I had an idea to swim in Lake Titicaca inspired by my friend Vicky Carter, who has swum here. I hadn’t promised as I didn’t know if it would fit in with the tour schedule -Taquile seemed the best place as the water is clear, unlike the slimy green water around Puno. Several others in our party are open water swimmers in Aotearoa (NZ) and are keen to join in, so a plan is made. Our guide suggests two possibilities: on the beach just after landing or after lunch at the end, jumping off the stone jetty. None of us want to jump so the beach it is.

We are joined by two young Netherlanders, also on our tour boat. We have all come equipped with swimming costumes and in some case, goggles, but the Netherlanders swim in their underwear. It’s a brisk ten degrees and quite delicious. Swimming at this altitude is a challenge and we are all breathless. I manage some front crawl but switch to backstroke as breathing is easier. I only manage four strokes of butterfly before again switching to my back for some double arm backstroke – my favourite. I don’t think we last more than a minute and spend the rest of the time floating around. The Netherlanders sit huddled together with just their shoulders out of the water, looking cold. It’s incredible to be swimming near the top of the Andes Mountains of Peru.

Invigorated, we dry of in the hot sun, apply sun-block and adjust our sun hats. The Netherlanders choose to keep their wet underwear on for modesty – it takes the rest of the afternoon for them to dry out.

The Islanders have built a wide pathway up the hill and we gather to watch a traditional dance. It has various recognisable steps – the Hokey Cokey; a Middle Eastern Line dance, which includes Jewish dance steps. It‘s interesting to note that various civilisations world-wide find similar solutions independently.

We are invited to join in but I’m not planning to dance. After the swim and walking up hill, I’m short of breath but one of the young Netherlanders asks me to dance, takes my hand and draws me into the circle. How can I refuse? Fortunately, the dance is not too taxing. The next stage is a retail opportunity with yet more textiles, scarves and hats for sale. We climb up another straight path which reminds me of a ramp up the side of a pyramid. It is hot, and the only way is to go at a slow and steady pace, taking regular deep breaths. Finally, we reach the top to find a small pyramid which our Guide’s Uncle has built as a look-out/ photo opportunity.

A few more steps take us to the uncle’s shaded patio for lunch. All around the Island, various boatloads of tourists are sitting down to eat at different homes. We start with Quinoa soup in terracotta bowls – delicious – seconds are called for. The main course is grilled trout (a Canadian species introduced into the lake) with rice, chips and vegetables – simple tasty and filling. I’m not sure about the double serving of carbohydrates though. To wash it down we have the option of buying beer or fizzy drinks like Cola. Mint tea is included, you just put a few twigs from a shrub, which looks nothing like the mint that we know, into a cup of boiling water. Coca leaves are the other option – they are said to be good for altitude sickness, but they also act as a diuretic.

Our guide tells the story of his island community. Before 1970, babies were born on the island, then hospitals became free but the journey into Puno was too long so the islanders built a house in Puno where pregnant mothers could go one week before and stay on, if needed. To finance this they turned their Island into a tourist destination by building the pathway and steps across the island as there were no roads, only narrow tracks and steps.

He also relates the procedure for marriage. The prospective husband has to knit a hat and weave cloth to a suitable standard before asking for the hand of his sweetheart in marriage.

We take perilous steps back down to our boat now tied up at a jetty on the Puno side of the island. We had landed and swum on the Bolivian side but we can barely make out that far shore. In addition to our ten Outside the Square travellers the boatful includes a Mexican Couple, some Danish youngsters, two Bolivians and the afore-mentioned French couple and Netherlanders. There is also one young man with an American accent, on his own. As Ann and I carefully negotiate the perilous steps down to the boat, the young man is standing by the path reading his book. He catches us up, overtakes and can be found further down the hill reading again.

Most of us sleep on the way back to Puno as the boat skirts around the floating islands and dropping people off at various points on the way, leaving only our group and the Netherlanders to disembark at Puno. They are also heading to Machu Pichu but we will not coincide. Coming back to Puno you can see clearly why it is called the Ugly City on a beautiful lake. Most of the buildings appear to be unfinished – few of the houses have been rendered or painted. Reinforcing rods of iron stick out of pillars awaiting the addition of another story. People only pay their house tax when work is completed or after ten years. Even then it is possible to claim that further work is planned, when they can afford it. We have seen this in outer suburbs wherever we go.

Only a few of us have the energy to go out for dinner at one of the best restaurants in Puno. I try the Guinea Pig Compote. I may have had Guinea Pig before, but can’t recall where – Argentina? Cambodia?

The Floating Islands of Lake Titicaca Day 5

The people of the floating islands originally lived on dry land around Lake Titicaca. They were a peaceful people but invaders forced them to move into the shallow parts of the lake, they filled in the area with layers of reeds cut from the lake on which they built their houses. When the Spanish arrived, they invented their floating islands far out in deep water. Many boats are taking tourists out into the lake and each one visits one of the Islands. It is carefully organised so that each island gets a turn, hosting a a boat. Dressed in bright colourful costumes, the island people greet us.

floating on air tanks – a modern solution

We have collected a young French couple on our way here from a hotel on the peninsular which used to be a prison. Now converted, guests have been known to complain that the rooms are too small. The girl is a wheel-chair-user and uses two walking sticks to negotiate the spongy surface of the Island.

Mary, a local woman from our Island, assists our guide to demonstrate how the floating Islands were made. They were forced to move further out to the deeper parts of the lake when the Spaniards arrived.

A solution was found in the roots of the reeds – they are porous, trapping air inside and therefore float well. Huge sections of roots were cut from the lake bed and tethered together, originally with twine but now with nylon rope, which lasts longer. Next layers of reeds are laid on these foundations which need replacing as they rot down. The top layer is green and freshly laid. It’s a bit like walking on a mattress. On top are the houses, the kitchens and other buildings, all made out of reeds and now lashed and woven with nylon twine.

Growing crops is not possible here, but there were fish in the lake and birds eggs were plentiful and the birds could be caught or shot. In this way, they traded with the land people, exchanging their goods for potatoes, corn and Alpaca wool which they turned into textiles to wear and now sell.

We are divided up and my small group is with Mary, who shows us ‘her’ house full of textile products. It’s a retail opportunity and doesn’t look as if anyone lives here, in spite of her claim. Most of the items are too brightly coloured for me, and I haven’t brought much cash as I wasn’t expecting to shop. However, a natural-coloured hanging has caught my eye. It’s more cash than I’ve got on me so I wave my Master Card and say ‘ VISA’. To my astonishment, Mary calls out to someone – low and behold a portable credit-card machine materialises and the transaction is completed via wifi in the middle of the highest navigable lake in the world at 3,827m.

Everyone in our group is incredulous, so I show the print-out receipt as proof. Lloyd tries to get Ken’s attention (both from our group) but he gets caught up in an old nail sticking out of Mary’s doorframe. In the confusion, a sale is lost. Lloyd, however, brushes off his wound even though there is blood everywhere and someone sticks a plaster on him, I think.

Not only do they have wifi but solar panels produce electricity. They used to use candles for light, but dried reeds are flammable – accidents happened. Now light bulbs are powered by the panels. Water is drawn from the lake and toilets are on separate islands. There can be some rather quick paddling to be seen.

Boats are also made from reeds and are quite elaborate, if cumbersome affairs. We are taken across the water to reconnect with our tour boat. There are two rowers at the stern, but mostly for show. The real power is from thin aluminium painter with an out-bord motor which skilfully manoeuvrers us across the waterway. From the upper deck we look down on these mini-communities, all charming but kept up for the tourists. The original need for these islands has gone and young people have left for education and an easier way of life. Perhaps they will come back later to continue their traditions, but it is uncertain. Their traditional subsistence way of life has disappeared, so tourism and sale of hand-made goods keeps them afloat.

Some of the modern buildings such as the Primary School (Highschool pupils have to go to the mainland) and the Mormon church (not a huge number of members) are floating on metal air-tanks. There are also small huts where holiday makers can stay the night.

More Altiplano on the way to Puno

Day 5

Another long drive today through valleys over four thousand metres high. Mountains on either side of us are straw-yellow with a hint of green. We continue to feel the effect of the altitude and some of us are not adjusting well.

The scenery is grand and the skies are big. Evidence of corn fields – random strips up the side of a mountain – begin to appear as do flocks of Alpaca, tended by a herder. Stone corals, some seemingly abandoned, can be seen. The Alpaca shelter in these overnight but these low dry-stone-walls can’t possibly contain Alpacas.

The ones my sister-in-law had were always jumping fences. I conclude that they must be hobbled at night to prevent escape. Further on there are cattle and sheep who are tethered so they cannot graze the green lucerne grown and clipped by hand to feed the stock. This farming practice is much the same as Egypt which I observed some years ago. Compared with the mountains this agriculture seems very small scale.

We stop at a beautiful lake where I observe a very stunted Alpaca scratching a living from the ubiquitous Ichu grass – a kind of tussock. The animal attacks the green roots of the Ichu from the outside leaving the centre to continue to grow. Suddenly I notice that much of the Ichu has been grazed and the herders are rotating their flocks around to different areas. It also looks like some had been clipped to feed to other stock. The Alpaca are key to this area, able to live at high altitudes and survive the cold nights in their woolly fleeces.

Stone enclosure for Alpacas or growing potatoe?

They provide meat to accompany a diet of corn and potatoes. The wool is woven and every stop along the way and urban markets offer ‘Baby Alpaca’ accumulated during the lack of tourism during the pandemic. The Peruvians are not pushy sellers, but you can tell that they have been severely affected. There’s a mountain of textiles and hand-made garments for sale post- pandemic.

We arrive to a view of Lake Titicaca, far below. It is blue and inviting but the foreground is grim. The road snakes down through the outskirts of Puno, an ugly city of half-finished buildings in a beautiful setting.

We walk out to explore the older heart of the city and to find a laundry service. There are none to be seen so we take our dirty clothes to dinner. A google search reveals several Laundries nearby, but they will be closed by the time we have eaten. It just seems easier to do it via the hotel.

Get thee to a Nunnery – Arequipa

Day 4.

I have the morning to myself and return to the main square, to find the buildings are white in daylight. People are sunning themselves on the benches as the temperature rises. At 2,335 metres above sea level, the temperature drops at night. I return to La Compania De San Ignacio Cloisters, just off the square to explore.

Church is open, so I divert. It’s gloomy and I get about five metres in the door and turn around. The Cloisters are light grey, almost white and are deserted. The artist stalls Richard mentioned last night have all gone. Apparently many things have not returned after COVID, all that remains here are a couple of Alpaca shops and a few cafés, which are not yet open. I climb up stairs to a walkway overlooking the cloister – it is beautiful and calm looking down.

I wander back to the square looking for a bench in the shade of a tree, but none are vacant, so it’s on to the balcony where all the coffee places are. I order a cappuccino and chose a seat looking out on the Square, get out my laptop and begin to write. When the cappuccino comes it is dreadful and I soon order agua con gas to clear my palette. Suddenly, I hear my name, Richard and another are three cafés along to my right and four others from our group are two cafés to my left.

Some time later my concentration is broken by drumming and lout hailing. I suspect another demonstration. It is, but in favour of a local mayoral candidate. It’s time to pack up and return to the ice-cream place opposite San Ignacio. It’s only mid-day and an ice-cream alone won’t sustain me through the afternoon so I start with a ham and cheese empanada. It is all puffed up – filled with air – a thin layer of cheese is melted into bits of ham. These are not as I remembered in Argentina a few years ago. The traditional Peruvian Ice Cream, Queso Helado, is unusual and delicious.

The afternoon is devoted to the Monastery of Santa Catalina, an order of Dominican nuns established in the sixteenth century. Our guide speaks good English but is initially a bit brisk , but warms up when we start asking questions. She is grateful to be back at work after COVID as during the pandemic there were no tourists. Peru was particularly badly hit initially, one guide claimed they were the worst in the world and even now masks are mandatory and a majority still wear them.

The nunnery is like a large village and covers between five and seven acres. It was a closed order with no contact to the outside world and there remain sixteen nuns in a modern closed of area of the compound. There is s video of them happily cooking, sewing, praying, singing and playing musical instruments. The products from their cooking are on sale.

From the 16^th century, the second daughter of every wealthy family went into the monastery, there was no choice. If the second daughters were twins, they went in as well. Families paid large amounts of money plus gifts of carpets and art works for the privilege of having a family member serving God. Most of their time was spent praying but they were forbidden to read the Bible as that might have led them to question the Catholic doctrine. That makes sense to me as my interpretation of the New Testament as a child and teenager, was that Jesus was a socialist.

The nuns lived in ‘houses’ which were little more than one room, even the Mother Superior lived in one room, albeit a larger room. Kitchens were attached – there are kitchens everywhere – and lower class nuns, those from poor families, did the work for the upper class nuns – cooking, washing and so on. You can see why they were denied access to the bible.

The 16^th century was not a safe time for girls and young women as those who married had to work hard, were usually abused by husbands and often died in childbirth. Only the eldest son inherited for the father – the other sons would go to be soldiers.

Our guide painted a grim picture of the lack of choice for young people. The colours painted on the walls look stunning and may have been similar in the 16^th century and may have helped to foster a sense of safety.

Small revolving doors allowed messages to be sent out to families and presents to be given to the Monastery. Often these presents were abandoned babies, who were adopted by the nuns. The girl, were brought up to be nuns while the boys left when they were about 8 -10.

Many of us are experiencing fuzzy heads as a result of the high altitude. Paracetamol and keeping hydrated is the key. After dinner and walking back to the hotel, the pedestrian streets are alive with sellers. Their wares are displayed on mats which can be easily collected up in a bundle and removed if the police sirens are heard. One of our party comes across a book-seller and is intrigued. The man says he is not Peruvian but Arequipian – a bit of regional pride doing on?

Day 3 The Heart of the City

Peru Day 3 The Heart of the City

Our guide today is Giermo. He tells us that every city has a heart, a centre or central square where people gather to identify, communicate and protest. Does Aotea Square do this for Auckland? Perhaps for protests. London has many hearts depending on your interest. Trafalgar Square for celebrations and demonstrations, the financial heart is now split between Bank and Canary Wharf in the old Docklands. Theatres are in Soho and so on. But today we are off to find the heart of Lima and perhaps Peru. A minibus collects us and all our luggage and we ride as Giermo tells us that Lima is a city of eleven million, but only one hundred and forty metres above the sea. There are forty-two mayors who govern the different districts of the city. Each mayor has a cabinet of councillors, so there is a lot of politics in the City which also has a top mayor. Only twenty percent of Peruvian politicians are women and there are now one hundred and thirty in Congress. Election posters with images of friendly-faced men can be seen everywhere as there is an election soon.

We learn that Peru exports mangos and asparagus – to be found most of the year in British supermarkets. Coffee beans from the Amazon are also exported as Peruvians don’t drink much coffee, preferring coca tea, the leaves of which also come from the Amazon. There is not much smoking here, though we did smell weed on the cliffs yesterday, just as one does walking around London. There are one and a half-million Venezuelans in Peru and they do smoke, according to Giermo.

Inca culture (centred in Cusco) spread extensively over neighbouring areas of what is now Columbia, Bolivia, Chile and northern Argentina. It was the dominant rule until the Spanish turned up, but it’s important to know that there were great civilisations here before the Inca and our first stop is at one of many pre-Inca temples around the city and according to Giermo, human sacrifices were made here. The temples have survived two thousand years because there is no rain to wash away the mud bricks. Giermo doesn’t remember rain in his lifetime – the last downpour being in 1978. The ancients also understood earthquakes and employed anti-seismic construction methods, so that the buildings moved with the undulations of the Earth. Now we drive through the historic upper-class suburbs built by the Spanish. The whole area is planted with Olive trees brought from Spain and planted in the green spaces between the houses. The olives are harvested, pressed and the oil given to local people. Some of the trees are four-hundred years-old and an ancient oil press is preserved and on show.

The main square is home to the usual colonial architecture of the period: solid,impressive and grand but nothing outstanding.

It is dominated by an equestrian statue of General Grau. In the other, more colourful square, there is a Cathedral, the Presidential Palace, a Theatre and various government buildings. It’s not crowded with people, so I suspect that any talking here happens indoors. It also says nothing of Peru, from what I’ve seen so far.

The group is to visit the museum to look at Inca gold in a vault, but we all need to have our vaccination passports to show, plus a mask. I can’t find where I’ve stored it on my phone and my NHS app doesn’t work here.

I just wait and another of our party, desperate for coffee also gives it a miss.

Suddenly, we come upon a very loud demonstration. Peruvian people are demonstrating in lines, chanting and blowing very loud plastic horns. The protest is against the corruption of the current Top Mayor. They are supervised by the police and the only violence is on the ear-drum. Suddenly police reinforcements arrive, but it seems they are to relieve the current force. The demonstration seems to be on the move and we find ourselves walking along side them in the opposite direction.

This central part of Lima is awash with protected historic buildings built by the Spanish. Many of these have wooden balconies which are shuttered with lattice-work so their inhabitants can see out but no one can see in.

Around the corner is the Basilica Neustra Sénora La Merced. It is, like many South American Catholic churches, packed with gruesome imagery with bloody statues of Christ, emphasising his suffering. The message is clear that the suffering poor are better of than the Saviour. The grandeur is designed to intimidate.

Home of the Inquisition, npw a Tech store

Opposite the church is a building which once housed the Inquisition, so that once tortured and converted, the victim could be escorted across the road to be guided in the faith.

We have time for a visit to the catacombs. The Spanish were here for 300 years and buried their dead under the church above. We are required to wear our masks to get in and descend into the earth and walk along tunnels either side of which are bones (mostly femurs) and skulls. Bodies were buried in lime and after a time, the remains were fished out for a new lot. Gruesome remains are displayed and lit. No photography is allowed.

Everywhere people are wearing masks, in busses and on the street. Peru was severely affected by Covid and it looks as if masks have been their main weapon. Peruvians are gregarious and gather in public spaces, but you can see the apprehension in some when a non-masked person approaches.

Women used to drape their heads for modesty – The balconies of the Bishop’s palace

We walk to our minibus and are taken to the airport for our flight to Arequipa. Showing my boarding pass on my phone works just like most other places in the world. It’s a short flight but the Hotel transport has failed to arrive, so we taxi into the city through ugly looking suburbs of half finished houses and other unidentifiable buildings. It takes forever as this is the second largest city in Peru.

Once settled into our hotel, we venture out for an evening stroll – straight down the hill to the main square.

It is busy with people and with the buildings lit up, looks very beautiful. It is dominated by the Cathedral and the other three sides have arched walkways where small shops are plying their trade. On the bottom side of the square there are balconies with inviting looking cafés. Young people with menus are trying to entice us upstairs. Further around is another interesting-looking church, closed now but the cloister looks worth an explore tomorrow.

We are off to a recommended restaurant in the other direction.

I try a lemonade made from a berry found in the Amazon, it is delicious and it goes with my fresh-water shrimp dish. We are in a covered courtyard surrounded by heaters like the ones in London and everywhere else in the world. Suddenly a man at the next table falls backwards onto the floor. Doctor Ann, who is our tour group, leaps to help, asking questions, inspecting the back of his head for wounds and dispensing empathy. He looks pale but is otherwise unharmed. Dr Ann returns in time for her food. A few minutes later the man’s partner also faints and collapses to the ground. She also recovers and they continue their dinner as if nothing had happened. A mystery.

Lima- the city where it never rains

The first thing I notice about Lima is the morning fog which, like San Francisco, rolls off the sea, blocks out the sunshine and heat. At this time of year (September) it burns off by lunchtime but around dusk at 6.30pm the temperature plumets to below ten degrees or colder. This requires up to three changes of clothes or layers which can be added or removed.

All this is caused by the cold Humboldt current which shoots up from Antarctica scooping up nutrients from the Pacific Ocean floor as it goes, to feed the plankton. Consequently the seas are rich with fish and seafood. The Humboldt eventually meets a warm current travelling south at the Galapagos Islands resulting in incredible diversity of flora and fauna.

Arturo is our guide today and explains the weather of Peru to us. We are playing at being locals by jumping on one of the numerous busses which are the main method of public transport. We travel out of the suburb of Milefiori to pick up tuk tuks. They are forbidden in the posh areas of Lima. We make for the sea past expensive apartment blocks with views of the mist-shrouded sea. We travel south along the coastal road to observe that the land is indeed a desert. Nothing grows in Lima that hasn’t been watered daily – fed by reservoirs and rivers from inland rain and snow from the Andes. Because the mountains are only ten kilometres inland and extremely high, they prevent the fog from drifting inland and dispersing.

Open water swimming course in the cold Pacific

We stop to observe the Pacific Ocean. Arturo spent a few years in Aotearoa and points in a south westerly direction with some fondness. There is a statue of General Miguel Grau splattered with guano. He is one of the heroes of Peru, even though he didn’t quite win the Pacific War in 1879 when Chile invaded and grabbed some of Peru and Bolivia lost its access to the sea. Originally Bolivia asked Peru for help but later withdrew leaving Peru to put up resistance to the incursion. A story currently playing out in Eastern Europe. Below is a sea wall, which encloses an open water course in the cold Pacific Ocean. One swimmer in a wet suit is doing the circuit. There is a small boat with people fishing, but no sign of a life guard. I haven’t got my swimming gear and there seems no way down from here.

Arturo tells us about the conquest of the Inca Empire by the Catholic Church. A cross by the cliff edge includes many of the Christian symbols. Far above on the hills is a pylon-style cross which lights up at night and can be seen from afar. This was made for the visit of the Pope Francis.

Further on is a rocky promontory where a young man is struggling to get into his white monk’s costume whilst removing his red pants. Legend has it that a young monk fell in love with a beautiful girl. Her family took her away, leaving the monk so heartbroken that he jumped to his death from the rocks. Our young man has managed to remove his red pants and now stands on the rock with a knotted rope attached to him. We wait – video buttons poised. He might be waiting for the waves to be at the right level or perhaps he is psyching himself up for his dive. Whatever his motive he has created suspense and anticipation in his audience. I miss the start, but notice that he bends his knees so that his lower legs will retard his entry into the sea. A great strategy to avoid breaking his neck on the bottom. He surfaces, quickly hauls himself up the knotted rope and scampers up to collect our money. There’s a group watching from the road, so he has to get there before they all drive off in their cars.

Onwards to Horseshoe Bay, once the most beautiful beach. The mayor of this region had ambitions to create a highway right around the coast. The hillside was blown away, resulting in rocks and pebbles covering the beach. The highway was never built.

Lunch is at Tacu Tacu – a no fuss restaurant where we are served jugs of Chicha Morada and Passion Fruit juice. They are both delicious, the former being made by boiling purple corn and adding some pineapple juice. Looking like the darkest red wine you ever saw, it originates in the Andes and is now ubiquitous in Peru. Our meal begins with two traditional starters: Ceviche – made from fresh raw fish marinade in lime, with corn and salad. I’ve never liked the idea of raw fish and am unsure about large chunks of it. It was fantastic – add fresh finely sliced red chilis to give it a bite. Causa – which looks like a small cake has layers of yellow mashed potato (there are over 4000 varieties of potato in Peru) then a layer of seafood or chicken then Avocado (native to the Americas from Mexico to the Andes) and finally another potato layer. Our main is grilled fish with rice and corn with spices – a tasty way to brighten up these inexpensive grains left over from yesterday. Filling and delicious.

We walk it off through the market area bright with multi-coloured fruit and vegetables and onwards past a mansion which was, in colonial times, part of a ranch retreat overlooking the sea. Not far away and behind a grim looking brown fence topped with electrified wire is the second best steak restaurant in the world. It seems the Peruvians are proud to be second best – there is quite a list. What comes across is the politics of Spanish colonisation and the legacy of the Incas and their empire which is still remembered. Not forgotten are former great civilisations thriving around the time of the Romans. There will be more to learn I’m sure.

Another local bus takes us to The Barranco district. We are looking at a valley going down to the sea. A recent earthquake has destroyed the roof of a church on the other side and other buildings made from adobe bricks are also damaged. Many years ago, this was a route the fishermen took down to the sea. The fog was so heavy that often they could not make out the path back up with their catch. One night they saw a light at the top and followed it to find a burning cross. This was a sign and the place became holy. We follow the path to discover the most amazing art on walls. Many artists are commissioned to paint on buildings by local governments and companies. Near the top of the Barranco is the work of Jade Rivera and his studio/shop. Jade has murals all over the world – it’s evocative work and this mural is stunning – a popular location for photo shoots. The photographer and model had infinite patience waiting for a shot clear from other people.

The underside of a bridge has become a mass portrait demonstrating the diversity of people in Peru. There’s an interesting mural representing The Amazon and the drug Ayahausca – a hallucinogenic concoction used by Samans to heal. The essential ingredient is like the synthetic drug DMT and patients must fast for three days before taking it and then only under the close supervision of the Shaman, who strongly disapprove of casual use. Lastly and most importantly, the woman who multitasks and holds the rest of the world on her shoulders

In the evening we visit the Aqua Park – water fountains by night. We have no expectations an discover a delight that rivals Bellagio’s in Vegas. I’ll just let the pictures tell the story.

Getting away to Peru

Getting away

The taxi is booked for five am and the alarm set for four-fifteen. No wine tonight, lights out at nine-thirty. It’s too early and I need to pee. I toss and turn, going over the last minute packing to be done in the morning – dozing off, only to be buzzed by a mosquito. This has happened several times over the last week. It’s officially Autumn but nights are still warm and the windows are open. Summer has been dry, so until the recent rain there has been nowhere for them to lay eggs. Now there are puddles, half-filled watering cans, buckets and other receptacles which have been transformed into nurseries.

Lights on, wide awake, I leap out of bed, one hand ready with the can of insect spray, firing wildly and not sure where it has gone and If I’ve killed it and so go back to bed. Got to pee again and dream again – half dozing. I haven’t killed it, it’s back; I closed the window, so it must be the same one, Bastard! All this, plus the lads in their noisy cars, farting up and down the road on a Saturday night.

My hotel from the side. Art on buildings is popular

By three-thirty, it’s no use, I’m wide awake. Time to get up, turn off the alarm and make tea. There’s time for my full morning exercise programme and even another shower – it’s a long time to Lima. By four-thirty, I am waiting for the taxi – he’s sent me a link so I can track his journey from Woolwich to Stepney Green. Last minute things like emptying the dishwasher; checking the doors and windows are locked and all non-essential appliances turned off.

Terminal three by five fifty-five am; there’s a long skinny, dark haired youth, the first in the check-out queue, sitting on a trolly laden with suitcases and bags. He’s reading a kindle. What looks like the Iberian check out staff gather to be briefed by their team leader. They take ages – a few other passengers arrive – the briefing continues then just as they take up their positions, two ‘Yellow Jackets’ turn up with a passport. Apparently, a young woman has been ‘denied entry’ and has to be processed and sent back on the next flight. The leader asks if anyone knows how to do this – one of the women does and then we all get called forward.

My anxiety over the health affidavit turns out to be un-called for. I present the print-out and it’s fine. The Peruvians may not even look at it and my vaccination record exceeds their requirements. The nice check-out man says the flight is on time and I’ve got plenty of time between flights at Madrid. Time for some breakfast and more hanging around – nothing in W H Smiths that even looks like a good read.

Iberian are quietly efficient boarding us and we are all seated in good time. I doze and wake to find we are still not off the ground and are thirty minutes late. Heathrow management of aircraft traffic is not working well. Once in the air, I press the call bell and ask the cabin staff if I’ve now got enough time in Madrid to get to my next departure gate and is there a way I can move up towards the front to be near the exit – I may have to run! She asks someone and moves me from right down the back to the first row behind the business class – separated by a curtain I can see them being served omelettes and orange juice. I’m too worried to eat or drink but a helpful young steward gives me a printed map of the terminal and assures me that it is only five minutes’ walk and we will be only ten minutes late. As we approach there is encouraging news – we will be on time as they have negotiated a closer runway at Madrid. In the end we are only five minutes late. The next obstacle is finding the way out. It’s not just a matter of walking along to Gate 44 (I had a text from Iberia) I have to get down to the lower level and go through security again. The plane has just started to board and there is a long queue and I’m at the back of it and I’m also at the back of the plane again.

I’m finding flying more of a challenge every time I do it. Taking the Eurostar to the Continent twice this year was relatively stress free. I must, however, be grateful to the Iberian crew who were gently optimistic that I would make the connection. I just hope my baggage gets there as well.

Ten hours later, I’m being ushered into the ‘priority’ queue at immigration along with some Peruvians and other old people. The general crowd looks horrendous and I’m glad I won’t have to stand for too long. The biggest surprise and relief is to see my small suitcase on the carrousel. I race to grab it before it disappears and fail – I catch it half way up the other side.

Mural art seems to blend in with the tangle of overhead wires

The official taxi ride into the city is unremarkable and I arrive at my Hotel to find a message from Richard, our Outside the Square tour leader, to join him and the others at a restaurant. I’m desperate for beer and so venture out almost immediately. It takes a while to reconcile which restaurant I’m going to with Richard’s verbal instructions but find them I do, but only Charlie and Robert (Californians) are with Richard. The rest of our ten strong part are either arriving very late at night or have been horrendously delayed – in Dallas – and are not expected to arrive until tomorrow or the next day. I can truly count myself lucky to be here and the beer is good, I have a second.

2021a pictorial account

January: As Covid restrictions ease – I fly to Wellington to see the Van Gogh interactive with family. A stunning experience.

January again in Wellington for Capital Swim weekend and the annual competition between Team Auckland Masters Swimmers and Different Strokes Wellington. TAMS won both trophies.

A time to catch up with Cousin Marie and Anne

February another mini lockdown

The America Cup was raced on the Waitemata Harbour often overtaking the ferry on training runs.

March: My cusi -sis, Mary Taylor (entrepreneur and foodie) develops a business – Walking food tours around Auckland. Queens road Panmure – a rich variety of tastes from a round the world.

A visit to Ngawha Springs where my mysterious grandfather spent his last years. The hot springs were frequented by Maori warriors after battle. Now a sad collection of batches with the baths closed for re-development.

I drop in to visit an old acting friend Johnny Givins at Ngunguru and catch up on my swimming in the Whangarei pool. Further south then to visit cousin Robyn Mustard and partner Eric, who have newly relocated to Mahurangi West with stunning views

April and Autumn in Central Hawke’s Bay with family. Reconnecting with the land and generally making myself useful.

With Cousins Jan and Jill and brother Craig

Managed to get a few swims in at the Waipukurau pool.

Back to Waiheke Island and Rocky Bay

Rocky Bay Store for sale – now sold

May: Back in London to a nation emerging from covid restrictions. My first swim .

July: A visit to my dear friend Ros and partner John. We walked for 6 hours through deserted farmland.

Travel Guide friend, Richard came to stay and we went to Greenwich for the day.

My birthday party was postponed by a week. It also rained heavily, flooding the courtyard.

August: To Hebden Bridge to see Annie and Fyfe. The familiar walks in the woods with the dog and a visit to the wonderful Barbara Hepworth Centre.

September: Swimming the 1500m freestyle for the first and last time. I do look a bit wrecked don’t I?

K2 Crawley.

At Barnet Copthal swim meet, I managed to win a fist full of 1st place vouchers to donate back for a good cause rather than collect medals.

It’s Chelsea flower show, in the Autumn for the first time. The Kings road shops get in on the act.

Delmozine and I go to Is God Is at the Royal Court to see friend and colleague, Ray in the show.

I’ve got a job managing a production of Marlowe’s Fate by an American academic, Peter Hodges. We are auditioning this month.

October: We are rehearsing Marlowe’s Fate all month, but I skive off to go to the National Masters Meet at Ponds Forge in Sheffield for a weekend

Our relay team Michael, Me Martin and Phil

I come away with good times and 4 bronze medals, two of them for relays.

November: Marlowe’s Fate has kept me very busy. No that it is up and running at the White Bear theatre I can relax just a little bit.

Marlowe’s Fate – Young Shaxper comes to London looking for work with a printer

Jaqueline, the printer’s wife has taken a fancy to Shaxper

I now have time to visit the Banksey exhibition, which is fantastic.

Time for a commercial break to push my own art. Now available on Kindle

A long awaited visit to Cathy and Claire in Collingham where we visited the Holocaust Museum and Southwell Minster. Both stunning

December: The Out to Swim Angels (Artistic Swimming) Christmas show.

A Masked Flight II

Singapore to London

Landing in Singapore, we’re asked to remain seated. We are to disembark in groups, so there’s not going to be the usual rush to retrieve hand luggage and stand in the isles packed like sardines waiting for the doors to open. I’d read in the Singapore Airlines email that groups to connecting flights would be given coloured wrist bands and escorted to the appropriate gate. First off are all those catching a flight to Manilla (that’s one of the red zone countries). I don’t see anyone getting off down in economy. Then, to my surprise, the rest of us can disembark. A woman at the end of the walkway just indicates London Heathrow to the right. There are no wrist bands or escorts, just an eighteen-minute walk to gate A15. Changi Airport is not quite as deserted as Auckland. There are staff in PPE doing various tasks or standing around and everyone is wearing a mask. Gate A15 is not open yet so I get chatting with a fellow Kiwi who is travelling to see his seventy-one-year-old partner – the love of his life. She has Parkinson’s and cancer and he wants to take her back to Aotearoa but he’s not sure if New Zealand Immigration will allow that.

It’s time for a new mask – I’ve worn this one for over ten hours and a fresh one feels better. Wearing a mask for the first time, on this journey would be hard and once again I reflect on the practice gained on the Waiheke Ferry – only forty minutes though. However, I’ve not felt the least discomfort nor difficulty breathing

We are boarding in groups again, but first, a large contingent who have been sitting in a separate area are being escorted onto the plane by staff wearing PPE. The passengers are all wearing green wrist band. I wonder where they have come from and if they are sitting in a separate part of the plane. This AB 350 is fuller that the last flight but there is still only one person to every three seats. We have fourteen hours ahead of us.

Eat (the food is tasteless), sleep, read (a bit of James Baldwin), play games, attempt to watch a movie. The Avengers is three hours long – I lose interest after fifty-nine minutes as the plot has not even got going. Sleep.

We arrive early due to a tail wind, at 3.16pm. There is no managed disembarkation and no sign of the red country passengers with green bands. Perhaps the have already gone or are waiting somewhere to follow us. There is hardly anyone about so I follow the signs to the electronic passport recognition gates. These include other passports like Aotearoa NZ, Australia and Canada etc, but not Europe. There’s a small queue and three officials checking our documentation (The locator form and the evidence of a negative Covid19 test) before moving on to the electronic biometric gates. I’m recognised, in spite of my relatively recent beard and move onto the baggage claim hall, passing long lines of red zone people. As this list is mostly from Africa, Indian subcontinent and South America the people queuing are various shades of brown. They are returning because they are British or have residency. In the Baggage Hall I approach a monitor to find out which carousel will deliver my bag. A worker shoes me away as I’m coming too close to the red zone people being escorted by staff in PPE.

It’s carousel number three and my bag is waiting. This has got to be that fastest exit at Heathrow ever. Geraldine is on her way, so I decide to relax with a coffee and something to eat at Café Nero. It’s take-away only – the seating area is blocked off and nearby seats are occupied by people or signs saying Do Not Sit Here. It’s a familiar sight from New Zealand’s lockdown, it’s just a shock to realise that Britain is still in the equivalent of our level three. The coffee and snack turn out to be a mistake as I have to manoeuvre my two bags whilst clutching hot coffee and other comestibles. I’ve texted Geraldine to say I’ll make my way up to the drop off place at the top, having looked for a pick-up place on the ground floor, where red zone people are being loaded into coaches destined for quarantine hotels. Geraldine turns out to be at Nero’s so I retrace my steps and we greet with an elbow touch – no hugging and kissing yet. By this time, Heathrow has got busier and traffic into town is fairly busy. The Sat Nav wants to send us around the M25 which will take longer, so we confuse it by going through town. Geraldine is worried that we’ll get delayed by the ‘Kill the Bill’ protest, which our daughter is attending – good for her – but it’s all over by the time we drive along the embankment, through the City and Whitechapel to Stepney Green. The Family have brought me groceries and it’s just a matter of finding which box the kettle in packed in to make a cup of tea.

A Masked Flight I

Auckland to Singapore

A calming, jazzy, behind-the-beat piano version of ‘Happy Days are Here Again’ is playing over the P.A. welcoming me as I settle into my economy seat on an Air Bus 350 flight SQ 282 to Singapore. After all the anxiety of that last few weeks I’m finally on my way. There is only one passenger every three seats and many of the rows are empty. There can’t be more than fifty passengers on this gigantic plane.

Auckland International terminal was deserted when I arrived at eight pm – no sign of any check-in desks opened. Anticipating long hours of sitting, I walked along the check-in zones, trundling my bags, sometimes behind, sometimes in front. I stopped to chat to a couple of cheerful Polynesian women at the help desk. They helped me to log on to the Airport Wifi. Check in wouldn’t be until around 9pm, so why didn’t I go upstairs to the Pre-departure zone and have a McDonalds? I smiled politely and said that I wasn’t too keen on McDonalds. I’d already checked my luggage weight and was pleased that my checked in case was only 17Kg but my carry on 2Kg over the 7Kg Limit. Moving my ‘Maori Made Easy’ book and dictionary plus some charger cables sort of did it. I’d got my laptop in a mini rucksack on my back. It will go into the carry-on after check-in.

I’ve come equipped with two documents, essential to get on the plane and into the UK; Proof of a negative Covid 19 test and something called a ‘Locator Form’. The Test had to be done within 72 hours of leaving Aotearoa New Zealand on Saturday morning at 0.15hrs. The test was booked for Wednesday with results expected on Friday, 48 hours later. I sold my car on Tuesday and decided to ride my Brompton bike to the GP surgery. I paid $200 and was told to wait around the back in the car park. The test was done through the car window. One of my worries was that the results would not be back in time but eventually a nurse emerged in full PPE. She was somewhat surprised to see me sitting next to my fold-up bike. I was done second, after a woman who was clearly not well. She was told to go home and self- isolate until she received a text. The nurse handed me a tissue and told me to blow my nose. I imagined this might be an additional way to collect the sample, but no I got the swab up the nose and I got to keep the tissue. It was quite unpleasant, going right up my sinuses and seemed to go on forever. I now sympathise with a friend working in Managed Isolation who has this done once a week.

I was very surprised to get a text and an email from the Auckland district Health Board the next morning to say I’m negative. Neither communication seems to have much detail as required by HM Government, UK, so I rang the surgery. They hadn’t been notified but advise me to come in on Friday and get a print-out.

Friday dawns and I have to fill out the Locator Form – online. Heavens knows what people in their Eighties and Nineties who don’t do computers would manage. Probably not travel. I’ve hopefully assembled all the information for the form in advance. I’ve purchased two Covid 19 tests for day two and day eight of my ten-day self-isolation. The list of companies who have seized an opportunity to benefit from the pandemic is endless and prices vary. I paid around £170. In return I got a code to enter into my locator form. An added worry was would the self-administered tests fit through the letterbox of my London house which was empty at the time. there was no way to find out. I tracked the delivery and suggested to the couriers that a family address in North London might be better as someone would be there. It wasn’t delivered to N11 and the couriers wouldn’t tell me where they’d delivered it as only the suppliers could divulge this information. I decided to wait until my son went to my house to un-pack my stuff from the store room. I need not have worried; the tests were there waiting. For someone who likes to be in-control, managing others from a distance can be stressful.

I needed flight details, the time of arrival and my seat number. Suddenly in the midst of filling out the form, there’s the possibility of purchasing a Test and Release pack, which I had planned to do when I got home. This test is done on day 5 and if negative I can get out of jail for £110. Whoopee. One anticipated problem is the lack of wifi in London as I can’t get anything installed until the 10 days are up. Buying the ‘Get out of jail’ test involves a code sent to my UK mobile number. The Vodaphone reception is so bad on Waiheke Island that I have to go upstairs and find a spot where one or two bars show and wait for the text. Eventually it’s all done and printed out and saved in my drop-box. I can relax until the Argentinian lads come to pack up everything, except the bike, in the store-room which they do in a record time of one hour fifty minutes.

After some lunch and some final cleaning, I cycle into the surgery to collect my printed covid test results, which, as I suspected, contain more information. I get back home hot, sweaty and soaking wet from cycling back up hill.

Showered and dressed, I wait for my friend Michael to collect me. The last few things have gone into the store-room. This included a large pile of washing which will wait for two years do be done. The Bike, which had been drying out in the late afternoon sunshine, a bag of toiletries and the cleaning gear take up the last few cubic metres. I am pleased with the shining stainless steel bench surfaces, the place looks like a show home, all ready for the tenants who will move in on Monday.

At check in all my documentation is declared to be in order, a huge relief, as I’m now allowed to get on the plane and I didn’t have a plan B for that. I’m one of the first to check-in and upstairs, the pre-departure lounge is deserted. Not a soul and McDonalds looks very closed. At security, one of my biggest hassles when travelling, I‘m the only one there. I can’t believe my eyes. No Queue. Immigration is relaxed but the automated gate doesn’t recognise my Kiwi passport – because I’m travelling on my UK passport. The nice man at the desk processes both for me. I travel though the deserted duty-free area into the departure lounge in the hope of an open bar where I can get a beer. Sadly, I can only get juice, nuts and crisps from one of those shops that sells everything and nothing.

A dismal automated floor polisher is going around and around, with a permanent smile on it’s face as it whirrs and clanks, seeming react when approached by stopping. Never have I seen an airport so deserted. There are half a dozen people sitting in the semi-dark. At the boarding gate, more people arrive. It takes less than three minutes to get everyone through the gates. No waiting around to be the first in your group so that important overhead locker space above my seat can be grabbed for carry-ons. I’d forgotten how much leg room there is in AB 350s. We are all wearing masks and will remain masked for the flight. I’m grateful for the practice of mask wearing on the Waiheke Island Ferry, Auckland busses and trains. The Chinese man over the isle is also wearing large clear plastic goggles – taking the whole thing seriously. With three seats to myself, I sleep most of the way, plugged into Mozart’s violin concertos.