Wake up on Sunday morning and Sarah is yet again stuck down with
altitude sickness. It is now safe to say that Type One Diabetics and
High Altitude should not mix. Insulin works differently, your digestion
slows right down to nothing, you wake every day and your stomach is
upside down. Sometimes there's a nasty headache to go with it. She has
so far refused to take an coca products to alleviate her symptoms. I
have embraced the magical leaf and all its health-giving properties. I
could (almost) go for a run.
So I go downstairs in the bitter cold and have breakfast whilst watching Liverpool playing Newcastle. It may have been an open (sort of) end to the season but it certainly didn't show in the quality of football being played. None of the real excitement from two years ago. But whatever. The most expensive team won the league. I phoned home and chatted to Killer, who was watching the City game, but it was hard to get too excited about it all. It was nicer to be reminded that my granny doesn't like Sir Alex Ferguson, men with pony tails, men with beards (something to hide, you see), or gingers. And that's just for starters.
Sarah sleeps off a lot of her misery and I write some blog. Eventually, lunchtime, we are both up and showered in water that is only slightly warmer than our room (for some reason, even though its sunny in the daytime, the houses just don't heat up). I swear that any accomodation we stay in between now and heading home will be noted in its online reviews as having 'really, really hot water in the shower'. I have been here nearly six months, had we not changed our flights we would be home tomorrow, and I am not happy with washing myself in cold water! I have poor circulation and I don't like being cold!
Out we go. Its actually warmer outside than in our hotel room. Getting used to being this high up might take a while. Its so different that what we know from home. I wish a canyon existed somewhere around here that dropped as deep as sea level. It would be terrifying to see how far away that it.
Spend an hour in a little internet cafe transfering our photographs from the camera to a DVD. It doesn't work the first time. We get The Fear. We test out one of our previously-burned photo DVDs. That appears to be blank. We get Even Worse Fear. We burn our photos twice and resolve to test out the DVDs when we return to the hostel.
But now we are hungry, very hungry, and I need a wee.
Round and round we walk, past one place, then another, not able to make a decision as to where to park our bums for lunch. Past a few Pollorias, a few very expensive restaurants, and finally we end up in the Inka Grill.
As I might say, "good shout".
Puno is not an obvious tourist joint. In fact, to a traveller unfamiliar with the Peruvian spirit of hospitality, it would be downright intimidating. The previous evening, walking home from burritos, we called into our neighbourhood corner shop for some fizzy water (Sarah may take up a strong anti-drugs stance, but carbonated water is like crack to her, and San Pellegrino is like heroin). In the shop are three intoxicated young men who strike up a conversation with us in Spanish. I chat away, all is well, and one chap, the most intoxicated, announces he is from Arequipa. Of course, I admit to having a shirt for FC Melgar, which instantly makes us best friends. Hugs all round, beers are shared, and Sarah once again is in awe of the power of football. The drunk one points out that his mate looks like Zlatan Ibrahimovic, and I agree, albeit about two feet shorter. All smiles and laughs, we part company.
That is a very typical encounter in Peru.
It is Mother's Day. Puno's (loosely designated) historic tourist centre is deserted. Almost everyone is at home with their families. Most restaurants are shut (it has been a while, but here we are with the characterist South American ritual of town centres shutting down on Sundays), and only a few cafes and phone shops are open. Tourists are simply nowhere to be seen. I wonder where they all could be, possibly just hiding in their hotel rooms and wondering why exactly they have come here.
We, however, are in Inka Grill and it is bunged to the gills. Like going for a pint in the Dobbin's Inn, everyone stops eating to look at us as we enter. This place might be on TripAdvisor but we are the only white faces here this afternoon.
Not that that bothers us. No foreigners means sensible prices. At 3.50pm we sit down and watch waiters and waitresses run between two kitchens, handing out plates of chips and hot dogs (or 'salchipapas') or cracking open 2L bottles of Inka Kola. There are a lot of mums here with husbands, or children, or both. Most of the ladies could be described as 'chola', which means women who wear the traditional dress. It is a wonderfully colourful place. We are under the attentive eye of some youngsters for whom we are puzzling and alien and funny. The restaurant has the feel of a family-run establishment, a bit haphazard and slow but drowning in character and characters.
An hour later we receive dinner; Sarah has opted for a huge Bife de Chorizo (New York Strip Steak) with chips and a bucket of chimichurri sauce, whilst I am yet again bravely assaulting the 'mixto de res', or mixed beef platter. The names of the cow parts are more enticing in Spanish. But there is nothing that a decent parrilla cannot do with udder, intestines, gizzards, heart and tongue to make them into a delicious dinner. Yum yum. Throw in some decent chips and a big bloody steak and I am in Argentina heaven on the shores of Lake Titikaka, which is very unexpected. We wash the whole thing down with a delicious bottle of Tacama Gran Reserva vino tinto, a beautiful blend of Tannat, Malbec and Petit Verdot.
Then, because we're having such a good time, we have another bottle. Well, I have most of it, but that's not the point. Good conversation and good company requires a good bottle of red wine. At GBP8 a pop for a 2011 Gran Reserva I'm hardly about to quit in the middle of it, am I?
Somewhere around 8.30pm we call it a day and hand over about GBP25 for our four and a half hours of pleasure. All we are left with are the staff (who were lovely) and a large table of folks in traditional dress who bid us a fond 'buenos noches' as we departed, and we offered them the same.
How could you possibly finish a day like that? How about some bottled water and watching John Grisham's The Firm on tv. In English. With Spanish subtitles. The audio out of sync, about three seconds late. Trying to guess from the subtitles what is going to be said next. I pass out about ten minutes before the end.
So I go downstairs in the bitter cold and have breakfast whilst watching Liverpool playing Newcastle. It may have been an open (sort of) end to the season but it certainly didn't show in the quality of football being played. None of the real excitement from two years ago. But whatever. The most expensive team won the league. I phoned home and chatted to Killer, who was watching the City game, but it was hard to get too excited about it all. It was nicer to be reminded that my granny doesn't like Sir Alex Ferguson, men with pony tails, men with beards (something to hide, you see), or gingers. And that's just for starters.
Sarah sleeps off a lot of her misery and I write some blog. Eventually, lunchtime, we are both up and showered in water that is only slightly warmer than our room (for some reason, even though its sunny in the daytime, the houses just don't heat up). I swear that any accomodation we stay in between now and heading home will be noted in its online reviews as having 'really, really hot water in the shower'. I have been here nearly six months, had we not changed our flights we would be home tomorrow, and I am not happy with washing myself in cold water! I have poor circulation and I don't like being cold!
Out we go. Its actually warmer outside than in our hotel room. Getting used to being this high up might take a while. Its so different that what we know from home. I wish a canyon existed somewhere around here that dropped as deep as sea level. It would be terrifying to see how far away that it.
Spend an hour in a little internet cafe transfering our photographs from the camera to a DVD. It doesn't work the first time. We get The Fear. We test out one of our previously-burned photo DVDs. That appears to be blank. We get Even Worse Fear. We burn our photos twice and resolve to test out the DVDs when we return to the hostel.
But now we are hungry, very hungry, and I need a wee.
Round and round we walk, past one place, then another, not able to make a decision as to where to park our bums for lunch. Past a few Pollorias, a few very expensive restaurants, and finally we end up in the Inka Grill.
As I might say, "good shout".
Puno is not an obvious tourist joint. In fact, to a traveller unfamiliar with the Peruvian spirit of hospitality, it would be downright intimidating. The previous evening, walking home from burritos, we called into our neighbourhood corner shop for some fizzy water (Sarah may take up a strong anti-drugs stance, but carbonated water is like crack to her, and San Pellegrino is like heroin). In the shop are three intoxicated young men who strike up a conversation with us in Spanish. I chat away, all is well, and one chap, the most intoxicated, announces he is from Arequipa. Of course, I admit to having a shirt for FC Melgar, which instantly makes us best friends. Hugs all round, beers are shared, and Sarah once again is in awe of the power of football. The drunk one points out that his mate looks like Zlatan Ibrahimovic, and I agree, albeit about two feet shorter. All smiles and laughs, we part company.
That is a very typical encounter in Peru.
It is Mother's Day. Puno's (loosely designated) historic tourist centre is deserted. Almost everyone is at home with their families. Most restaurants are shut (it has been a while, but here we are with the characterist South American ritual of town centres shutting down on Sundays), and only a few cafes and phone shops are open. Tourists are simply nowhere to be seen. I wonder where they all could be, possibly just hiding in their hotel rooms and wondering why exactly they have come here.
We, however, are in Inka Grill and it is bunged to the gills. Like going for a pint in the Dobbin's Inn, everyone stops eating to look at us as we enter. This place might be on TripAdvisor but we are the only white faces here this afternoon.
Not that that bothers us. No foreigners means sensible prices. At 3.50pm we sit down and watch waiters and waitresses run between two kitchens, handing out plates of chips and hot dogs (or 'salchipapas') or cracking open 2L bottles of Inka Kola. There are a lot of mums here with husbands, or children, or both. Most of the ladies could be described as 'chola', which means women who wear the traditional dress. It is a wonderfully colourful place. We are under the attentive eye of some youngsters for whom we are puzzling and alien and funny. The restaurant has the feel of a family-run establishment, a bit haphazard and slow but drowning in character and characters.
An hour later we receive dinner; Sarah has opted for a huge Bife de Chorizo (New York Strip Steak) with chips and a bucket of chimichurri sauce, whilst I am yet again bravely assaulting the 'mixto de res', or mixed beef platter. The names of the cow parts are more enticing in Spanish. But there is nothing that a decent parrilla cannot do with udder, intestines, gizzards, heart and tongue to make them into a delicious dinner. Yum yum. Throw in some decent chips and a big bloody steak and I am in Argentina heaven on the shores of Lake Titikaka, which is very unexpected. We wash the whole thing down with a delicious bottle of Tacama Gran Reserva vino tinto, a beautiful blend of Tannat, Malbec and Petit Verdot.
Then, because we're having such a good time, we have another bottle. Well, I have most of it, but that's not the point. Good conversation and good company requires a good bottle of red wine. At GBP8 a pop for a 2011 Gran Reserva I'm hardly about to quit in the middle of it, am I?
Somewhere around 8.30pm we call it a day and hand over about GBP25 for our four and a half hours of pleasure. All we are left with are the staff (who were lovely) and a large table of folks in traditional dress who bid us a fond 'buenos noches' as we departed, and we offered them the same.
How could you possibly finish a day like that? How about some bottled water and watching John Grisham's The Firm on tv. In English. With Spanish subtitles. The audio out of sync, about three seconds late. Trying to guess from the subtitles what is going to be said next. I pass out about ten minutes before the end.
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