The Panama Hat

Sunday 20th January 2008 was the last day of my first ever trip to Australia. Before leaving Melbourne, that afternoon, I bought myself a hat. A Panama hat, from City Hatters, next to Flinders Street station.

In the days that followed, I made a monumental decision that changed my life forever. In the coming months, as I extracted myself from my business, and spent more time 'working from home' the hat came to symbolise my impending freedom. I once made a vow, that if the sun were shining and I wasn't working, I would be wearing it. It was an easy promise to keep.

However, a hat that well loved and travelled must eventually succumb, as will we all, to the pressures of life. The pinch had torn and disintegrated. The weave dried and cracked. I should remark that it is not actually a true Panama - though the weave comes from Ecuador, it was made in the States. I resolved, earlier in the year, to buy a genuine Panama hat in Ecuador, and allow my old one the freedom it had so richly earned. To place it back from whence it came.

The hat and I share a few final thoughts

And so this morning I purchased a 100% genuine Panama hat. Woven and lovingly hand crafted in Cuenca, Ecuador, over a period of months. It is a thing of infinite beauty and exceptional craftsmanship. On the day when I will give my old hat away, I can't help wondering when and how this one and I will head our separate ways.

I sit in Plaza Grande for a few moments, wondering where I should leave the old one. I can't bring myself to do it. I walk around for a while, then pass an old man, stop and turn back. There was something in his eyes, no doubt about it. I gently took the hat from my head and crouched beside him.

Disculpame señor. Este sombrero tiene mucho suerte para mi. Pero, no lo necesito ahora. Te gustaría? Es un regalito a usted, de mi.

He smiled and accepted my offer. I thought about asking for his photograph, but somehow that would have cheapened the deal - made it an exchange and not a gift. And anyway, I saw his face and will never forget it. I put my hand on his shoulder instead, said goodbye and walked away, a smile upon my face and just the slightest hint of a tear in my eye.

Quito Old Town

My friend Steve lived in Quito for a few years and furnished me with some pointers. Here’s what he said about Quito old town:

The old town is pretty far from most stuff and also pretty dodgy. Quito is pretty dodgy in general actually - every time you go out you have to prepare for the fact that you might get mugged, although you rarely do. It's a bit like Holloway Road in that respect.

Fortunately, that's where the similarities with Holloway Road end. The historic centre of town was the first city to receive UNESCO heritage status, in 1978. (Holloway just missed out). It is considered the best preserved colonial centre in Latin America. Magnificent churches and cathedrals are on almost every corner, and the narrow streets climb up and down and disappear into the sides of the hills that surround the town.

They keep the cars out of the centre on a Sunday, so I took the opportunity to run the gauntlet and have a stroll about. It's not just the cars it seems - despite the fact that there are hundreds of locals wandering the streets, most of the shops and cafes are shut too. I find somewhere to eat in Plaza San Francisco, and am amazed to be served a very yellow looking ceviche, flavoured with sweet mustard. I guess it wouldn't do if we were all the same.

Even on a busy Sunday afternoon, I can see what Steve meant. There is a slight edge to the place, a lurking menace that you can't quite put your finger on. Much later, I head out for dinner. The streets are deserted, all the restaurants closed, and the sense of impending violence sharpened considerably. If I wasn't six foot one and as hard as nails, I might even be a bit worried. I pop back to the hotel to research alternative dinner plans, and the guy looks at me as though I am mad. Toma un taxi señor.

Things are a bit better today. Everything's open, the streets are lively, loud and busy and the lingering mist of danger has evaporated. And in Plaza Grande, some sort of Independence related celebration is occurring.

It's not a bad place really. I like it, but I'm probably a little bit too tired to make the effort to appreciate it. Today is my last day in Latin America. It's been an awesome few months, and I know I need a lot more than that to really do it justice. But there's a grand 'plan' scribbled on a piece of paper somewhere in amongst all the crap I'm carting around with me, and it is quite insistent. On June 1st, it says, I have to swap continents.

Only quitters quit quitting

My arrival in Quito is somewhat ominous. The anticipated bloke with the sign bearing my name simply isn't there. I contrive a cab to take me to the hostel so I can abuse them, but the place is banged up with no one in sight.

I am in the Mariscal district of Quito New Town. The many bars are pumping out dubious 'rock' music and a strange combination of sketchy locals and conspicuous yanks are crowding the sidewalk. It is a little after 4pm. I'm prowling the streets with my three bags weighing heavily upon my shoulders, and resolve to check myself into the first hotel I see, regardless of any characteristics that it may or may not possess.

Luckily for me, the first place I stumble upon is a very fine boutique hotel, with matching prices. I wearily abandon my bags and promptly crash out, despite the thumping musical sounds emanating from the street below. By the time I come to, it is dark. The music is louder and the streets throng with people. I may as well be staying in Leicester fucking Square.

I decide to conduct a little reconnaissance, find a bar to prop up and maybe somewhere to eat. I walk a few blocks but can't believe how rubbish it is. Crap bars, drunk Americans, dodgy locals. I am in desperate need of a beer but can't find anywhere I would deliberately walk into in order to consume one. Eventually I pull a double take as I walk past an inconspicuous, shit looking place with a couple of empty bar stools. That'll do for me.

It transpires that it is a karaoke bar. I sit unobtrusively sipping my 'Conquer' whilst brushing up on my Spanish thanks to the lyrics flashing across the screen. One guy really can sing. He is followed by a girl who really can't. Her enormous breasts, whilst obscuring almost everything else within a two-block radius, can't hide the fact that most animals, in the last painful throes of their lives, emit more melodious notes than her more than ample lungs.

Later, when she unsuccessfully attempts to seduce me, I take my cue to leave. I can't find a restaurant that doesn't look rubbish, so finally settle for the one next to my hotel where I am entitled to a free mojito. I chuck this back with a beer chaser and eat. The food's better than I expected, but halfway through it dawns on me that I am in a bar with fake trees propping up the ceiling, surrounded by drunk Americans, and I would rather be suspended naked from the Statue of Eros than spend another second on these streets. I retreat, earplugs in, curtains drawn, and plan a move into the Old Town for tomorrow.

Nobody likes a quitter I know, but I really have no choice.

Un cuento de dos capitales

1. Lima, Peru

Forty-eight hours is hardly enough time to get to know a city, so I don't really try. The first thing I do, upon discovering that my B&B possesses the most comfortable bed I have encountered in several months, is fall into a deep, detached sleep. And then I get drunk. Properly drunk, with English people.

They're not quite the Graham Greene type ex-pats one might expect to find in a Latin American capital city. In fact, I am in the esteemed company of Miles Buesst, the Captain of the Peruvian national cricket team. You have to admire the tenacity of an Englishman determined enough to achieve ICC Affiliation in a country with one cricket pitch, whose closest away fixture involves a journey of 2,400 kilometres to Santiago, and where the nearest shop selling cricket equipment is on a different continent. The only advice I could offer was that he should write a book. http://perucricket.com/

The hangover took a fair bit of sleeping off. That done, I headed into Miraflores, the hospitable, westerner friendly side of Lima, for lunch. We had to pass up a few of the better Cevicherias due to the long queues outside, but eventually found one and got stuck in. I haven't eaten an enormous amount of ceviche in South America, though I have made it on a Peruvian cooking course in Buenos Aires. This one kicks ass. And it kicks a lot more too when you get a mouthful of the chilli. The liquid that remains on the plate is known as leche de tigre (tiger's milk) and is apparently available individually as a male aphrodisiac. No wonder they eat so much of the stuff.

Having bade farewell to Miles, and with a Peru cricket shirt now tucked under my arm, I spend the afternoon wandering Miraflores trying to get a feel for the city. It lies somewhere between the two extremes I have encountered so far; the European capitals like Buenos Aires and Santiago, and the crazy South American ones like La Paz. It's definitely nearer the former than the latter, and that will only ever move in one direction. But it still retains enough unexplained holes in the ground, shoeshine boys, taxi drivers who think they're Nelson Piquet and people selling everything to be defiantly South American in its style. I kind of like it.


2. Pescados Capitales

My culinary experience of Peru was hijacked by the gastroenteritis I suffered at the hands of the Bolivian popcorn, so I was determined to atone on my last night in Lima. I'd heard good things about Pescados Capitales, so it seemed as good a place as any.

I kick off with an ice cold Cusqueña while my order takes shape. A Pisco Sour to start me off. Then ceviche of flounder and octopus. Then brochettes of prawn, squid and octopus. All rinsed down with a Sauvignon Blanc that smells like a wild English meadow.

It is all very good. But the ceviche doesn't top what I had at lunchtime. The heat here is coming from black pepper, and I prefer the rounder sweeter heat of chilli. But the shavings of octopus and the big chunks of lenguado are divine.

The brochettes too are very good. Skewers of octopus in butter; soft, succulent and juicy. Prawns marinated in chimichurri, and squid in anticucho. I really savour every mouthful, all the time resisting the temptation to rise from my table, stroll across to the loud, obnoxious American and his friend who looks like Ned Flanders, and smash their heads together.

I am forced to try the crème brûlée, which disappoints. And so I am forced to drown the disappointment in a Gin and Tonic, and when that doesn't work, in another. By the time order is restored, the comfiest bed in South America beckons me into its midst, and I wilfully pass out.

City in the clouds

Some places are, quite simply, very, very special. Trying to define them with words, even pictures, feels futile and disrespectful. All you can do is wait until you see them for yourself, sit quietly somewhere, and appreciate them just as they are. Machu Picchu is without question such a place.

Via a bus to Ollantaytambo, another bus, and the train that weaves up the Sacred Valley towards Aguas Calientes, I made my way. My stomach almost completely recovered and buoyed by the excitement of what lay ahead, I ate a splendid meal in town before getting an early night in anticipation of a very early morning. The river roared outside my window and sent me into a blissful sleep.

It also disguised the sound of the rain. The torrential rain. It did such a good job, that I wasn't even aware of it at all until I stepped outside at 6.30 am, hopelessly unprepared. Luckily it abated a little as we made our snake like ascent to the summit and the famous 'Lost City' of the Incas. I'm not quite sure who was meant to have 'Lost' it, but they definitely found it again, that's for sure.

Even at this time there are plenty of people knocking about, though it's hard to see them through the clouds. I resist the temptation to look too much and wind my way up the slippery steps to the Hut of the Caretaker for the classic view of the ruins. It is completely obscured by cloud, but I don't really mind.

In some ways more incredible than the city itself is its location. As the clouds gradually dissipate, stunning ragged mountains appear from the mist. The Incas built the city here to be closer to the Gods. They succeeded. The sense of being somewhere both intensely spiritual and physically improbable see to that.

History is not within the grasp of mortal men. Quite the opposite. We lie within its reach. Every now and then its icy fingers tingle down the spine and we may be lucky enough to feel it. Reaching out to us, breathing life into us through the actions and beliefs of people who have long since shuffled off. In a quiet spot in Machu Picchu, or Pisac, or any of the other ruins in the Sacred Valley, you can almost hear it, whistling between the great stone walls.

My week in Ruins

Cuzco itself is surrounded by a number of notable Inca ruins, and more still lie in the Sacred Valley of the Río Urubamba.

From the centre of town you can walk up to Saqsaywamán. It will almost kill you, but you can, and accompanied by a couple of Aussies from the hostel, I do. It's a big sprawling site with spectacular views over the city. It is also overrun with tourists, many of them Latinos, with the odd group of Americans discreetly blending in amongst them.

Blending in

This is my first proper experience of an Inca site. Perhaps the most remarkable thing is the stonemasonry. First of all, they got these massive stones to wherever they needed them without using the wheel (although they knew about it, it was pretty much useless on the terrain). Then they would somehow cut and fit them together so tightly that a sheet of paper won't fit in the cracks. Modern attempts to replicate the possible techniques they used have been fruitless. Their walls were also built to withstand earthquakes, making them virtually ineradicable. Which is why so many of them remain today.

Inca stonemasonry

Saqsaywamán

Half an hour or so from Cuzco, on the banks of the Urubamba river, lies the little town of Písac. And on the sides of a mountain that looms up from the town, lie the remains of the old Inca settlement. The hillsides are terraced all the way round, for agricultural and defensive reasons. At the top, the buildings cling impossibly to the rocks. It's a wonderful place to walk around - far less tourists and many more opportunities for peace. I spend a few long minutes at the top, clinging desperately to my hat in the gusting wind and wondering how the hell they managed to build the bloody place.

Písac

Via an absurdly precarious footpath, a tunnel and some nice stone steps alongside a sheer drop, you can make your way to the other side of the mountain, more ruins, and if you're stupid, like me, you can make the 45 minute descent into town.

Further up the Sacred Valley you hit the tiny town of Ollantaytambo. Ruins and terracing ascend the hillsides yet again, but the town itself this time is pretty much unchanged since the Incas were around (probably a few more hostels nowadays).

It's a cool little place with friendly people, but there are a lot of gringos in town, myself included. And that's because this is the last stop on the way to the greatest site of them all. Machu Picchu. And I cannot wait.

Cada Sunday

One of the great things about South America is that you can never be quite sure what will wake you up in the morning. Dogs, fairly often. Car horns are popular. Firecrackers. Singing, whistling, chanting. Drums, maybe. Or, if you're unlucky, like me, diarrhoea. This morning it was all of them - no telling which delivered the fatal blow.

Sat on the roof eating a meagre breakfast, I could hear the beginnings of some kind of carnival. Outside and it is really going off. A giant procession is snaking its way through the streets, and it seems like the whole town must be involved. I walk past groups of similarly clad ladies gearing up for their turn.

The locals who aren't taking part are lining the streets. Kids with cameras are running around taking pictures of their mums. As well as the colourfully clad traditional groups, there are student doctors, nurses, men and women in suits, all marching under one banner or another.

I peel away and have a wander around the quiet back streets for a while. I make my way to a small square away from all the action, only to find a miniature version in full swing there. Benches from the church have been put out in the street, and there's a group of Peruvian Morris Dancers [citation needeed] dancing in front of some kind of golden altar. Not sure what the Vatican would make of it all, but they seem to be enjoying themselves.

The main square, Plaza de Armas, is the destination for the main procession. I can't quite work out where they all go after, maybe they just head back to the beginning and start again. Either way, it's a great atmosphere. The drums are beating, trumpets are blowing, people are dancing. Everyone, myself included, has a smile on their face.

The best thing about it all is that it is completely inclusive. Young and old, all shades, shapes and sexes. It must be a pretty special occasion to bring all this about, and I'm wracking my brains to work out what it might be. I can't think of anything religious, and I haven't seen any streets named 23 de mayo, which normally gives it away. Eventually I give in and ask someone. ¿Que pasa hoy? I ask a pretty girl. Es Cada Domingo señor. Cada Sunday? What the hell is that? Cada Sunday? Cada. Cada. Cada.

Oh yeah, got it. Cada. Spanish for each.