Tuesday 9th Dec: Arequipa

People seem to get up early here. People began to stir from about 4am. Its a big hostel, not a backpacker joint. THere seems to be a lot of workers and long term residents but no backpackers. Twice there were attempts to open my door. The first time a kid started messing at it before his mother called him away. A short while later an adult tried opening it. This put me on my guard. I didn´t even have my trusty penknife which I´d used to ward off all kinds of wild animals in America.

I got up at 9am. I considered moving to a different hostel, not because of the attempts on my door but because the shared toilet/ shower was manky. After thinking about it for a few minutes I did nothing, too lazy. I went out to have a look at Arequipa. Its an old colonial town. Built by the spanish in the 1540´s, presumably over an older Inca settlement. Overlooking the town is El Misti a volcanoe which dominates the skyline at 5, 800m high. I decided to walk the 3km into town. I passed a market area, with fruit, veg and all kinds of stalls. Thereçs a distinct whiff of stale urine along the roadside. I buy a meat and veg empanada (pie) from a lady for my breakfast and get directions from her into town. There were no street names so after a while I wasn´t sure if I was going in the right direction. I was following my nose. Always the intrepid traveller I took out my map and compass and hailed a taxi. It really wasn´t that difficult after all.

The taxi dropped me off at the Plaza de Armas, the heart of the old town. My first thought was "This is impressive". The plaza in enlosed on three sides by a colonnaded walkway. The fourth side is spanne by the city´s cathedral. All of the buildings in this part of the city are built from a local white volcanic rock, sillar. It gives a very distinctive appearance to the colonial buildinge of the centre. The old town is very spanish looking with its 16th and 17th century buildings and churches. Its very different to mos to the towns of senn before now.

I visit a museum which holds ´the ice maiden´, "Juanita" . She was discovered in 1995 on one of the local volcanoes. She was an Inca sacrifice, intended to placate to the gods believed to emanate from the volcanoes. The museum illustrates the tradition of human sacrifice among the Incas 500yrs ago. Juanita was 13yrs old when she died on the top of a volcanoe over 6,00m high. her body remains intact, frozen and preserved by the permafrost at that altitude and is now on dislay in a specially controlled display in the museum. She was most likely from a noble inca family, chosen as a toddler for her beauty and reared in one of the temples at Cusco, the imperial Inca Capital. When the time came for her sacrifice. The high priesthood brought her and a retinue of approx 50 on the 200km trek to the volcanoe, climbed to over 6,00m and performed the riual in which Juanito was sacrificed. Its a tragic yet compelling story particularly when you stand before the individual concerned. All the grave goods which accompanied her are on display and help to illustrate the inca culture from which she was taken.

I take a taxi back to the hostel in the afternoon. Travelling by taxi in Arequipa is a bit of and experience. There are very few traffic lights in the town and every junction is a 50!50 race to see who holds their nerve, and the "racing line". Its like a game of chicken. He who holds his nerve the longest gets to drive through the junction without stopping. The city is full of these small yellow taxis, Daewoo Ticos. They are tiny , zippy little things, emninently suited nipping in and out of traffic in the confines of Arequipaçs centre. It appears all the taxi drivers have seen the 60çs film "The Italian Job" and spend their working hours trying to recreate the great chase through the centre of Turin. Approaching a succession of "battleground" junctions I cançt help humming to myself "Self preservation society". My driver is the "real" Michael Caine as he weaves through traffic, accelerates through junctions scaring the bejaysus out of some pedestrians while informing me of the current state of Peruvian football. After a breathless spin around town the driver couteously delivers me to my side of town.

I donçt do a whole lot for the rest of the evening. I stay on my side of town not bothering to go back into the centre. I get a bite to eat. I go for a stroll for a while, watching the streetscape change as darkness falls. The local restaurants fill up. Street vendors appear on the walkways with small portable kitchens. illuminated by street lights they have tiny counters and room enough for 2 people to sit and eat by the roadside. When I ate earlier in the old town at a small restaurant I was waited on by an attentive old gent. he knew exactly what I wanted as I entered. He stood chest high to me with neat greying hair and a demeanour that suggested he ran his enterprise efficiently and politely. I, or he, Içm not sure, ordered a sopa, quarter pollo y papas fritas for 6 soles. I asked for an orange fanta, he poured the drink into a glass for me. During the meal as I drained the fanta from the glass he came over and topped up pouring the remainder from the bottle. He asked if the meal was ok. Of course it was. At the end of the meal I tipped him. He smiled, thanked me nodding his head graciously. A gent