Not much to report about Wednesday. Sarah struck down with another bug of sorts, utterly drained, slightly feverish. Spent the whole day in bed. I took advantage of this time off to play a few word games on the tablet and write some ugly lyrics (and some beautiful ones too). No call from passport peeps, no change in status, Athletico Madrid beat Chelsea to make it an all-Madrid final in Lisbon for the Champions League.
I, also, was exhausted, and by 9.30pm it was lights out. Highly unlikely Captain, but I assure you it was so. The only thing of note all day was my first Ceviche de Trucha, trout ceviche, which was much better than I expected. Normally ceviche is made with meaty saltwater fish, but it also works well with the delicate freshwater trout. The little bits of rocoto chili floating on the top didn't take anything away from it at all.
Thursday. A different type of day. A FOOTBALL day. A specific football day. More on that later.
Sarah is feeling a bit better. We cannot agree whether she is feeling the effects of vertigo, of a bug, of altitude sickness, or gastro-enteritis (unlikely) or a million other things that www.webmd.com has suggested. I suspect that her delicate system is still not quite ready for the 'raw' hygiene conditions of Peru (the one and only thing letting this country down). Dizzy spells, racing pulse, grumbly tummy, nothing suggesting a single cause. I put it down to various antibiotics being taken recently, combined with the stress of the passports.
Ah yes, passports. As I compose my email to Steven Nolan (trust me, it would make an iron man weep), Sarah checks the status of our applications on the Passport Office website. Suddenly we have moved from 'Awaiting application from applicant' to 'Application received, processing'. Sarah is moved to tears. Still, God help them tomorrow morning. They have failed yet again to phone us. I shall be sending yet another stiffly worded letter upon my return to the six counties, this time to the ombudsman or whomever is in charge of making sure people like me don't have to go through this sort of nonsense.
That was breakfast. We stride out towards Ollantaytambo's ruins, the non-free ones, which look like a series of tiered gardens falling down the side of the mountain. Some folk consider these a warm-up for Machu Picchu. Some folk consider them an alternative. I shall let ye know in days to come.
Suffice to say, Ollantaytambo has yet to let me down on any front, and these ruins are no exception. As with every site we have been to, there's a trade-off between (a) no guide and no information on anything, or (b) guided tour that seems to bypass an awful lot of stuff plus costs you an extra tenner. We always skip the guide, given that any we see seem to tell you things you might have guessed, plus they tend to go a bit fast and leave you wondering what happened 'all over there at that bit we're walking past'.
So walk up some stairs, look around, Australians nearby, some local girls bound up steps as we are panting for breath, get to the top, guess at what this room might have been, look at the view, walk a path around the edge of the mountain that I probably shouldn't walk on, come back, see some more half-collapsed houses, wonder what it all looked like five hundred years ago, walk down stairs, see some dug-up ruins, leave.
Sounds crap, but it was excellent, unmissable. All you can smell at the top of the hill is the wild mint, saturating your senses. Wonderful nature.
Enough culture. Back in the very 'ok' bar we watched Real Madrid demolish Bayern Munich in on Tuesday, no one is about because no one cares about Valencia or Sevilla (or Juventus or Benfica for that matter) and we get good seats and beer, which instantly makes Sarah feel ill, so she gives it all to me, as I sit pulling my hair out and guldering at the performance in front of me. Every so often the cat that lives in the restaurant gets up, talks to someone, then sits down again, bothering Sarah in the process. Lunch was not very good.
After 94 minutes and 3 Valencia goals, somehow Sevilla find a goal from Stephane M'Bia's head with the last touch of the game, and Sevilla make it to the final of the Europa League. I cannot find words to describe the yoo-hooing and screaming I did, as I have lost my voice. Much less to find that Juve somehow drew 0-0 with Benfica in Turin. Unbelievable Geoff.
Back to the hostel, Sarah skypes home, I go to the internet cafe and upload some photos, we decide to stay in Ollantaytambo one more night to make sure she's feeling better before we head to MP, and then its out to a surprisingly nice restaurant that plays Pink Floyd's The Division Bell album throughout our dinner, followed by The Doors' Greatest Hits. I had a bowl of quinoa soup and a bottle of Peruvian red wine (semi-sweet) that tasted like Port at 11.5% that Sarah refused to drink (and I understood why). One of the stranger dinners we have enjoyed on this trip.
And now... 11pm... Sarah passed out... me still punching the air and grinning. A good day.
I, also, was exhausted, and by 9.30pm it was lights out. Highly unlikely Captain, but I assure you it was so. The only thing of note all day was my first Ceviche de Trucha, trout ceviche, which was much better than I expected. Normally ceviche is made with meaty saltwater fish, but it also works well with the delicate freshwater trout. The little bits of rocoto chili floating on the top didn't take anything away from it at all.
Thursday. A different type of day. A FOOTBALL day. A specific football day. More on that later.
Sarah is feeling a bit better. We cannot agree whether she is feeling the effects of vertigo, of a bug, of altitude sickness, or gastro-enteritis (unlikely) or a million other things that www.webmd.com has suggested. I suspect that her delicate system is still not quite ready for the 'raw' hygiene conditions of Peru (the one and only thing letting this country down). Dizzy spells, racing pulse, grumbly tummy, nothing suggesting a single cause. I put it down to various antibiotics being taken recently, combined with the stress of the passports.
Ah yes, passports. As I compose my email to Steven Nolan (trust me, it would make an iron man weep), Sarah checks the status of our applications on the Passport Office website. Suddenly we have moved from 'Awaiting application from applicant' to 'Application received, processing'. Sarah is moved to tears. Still, God help them tomorrow morning. They have failed yet again to phone us. I shall be sending yet another stiffly worded letter upon my return to the six counties, this time to the ombudsman or whomever is in charge of making sure people like me don't have to go through this sort of nonsense.
That was breakfast. We stride out towards Ollantaytambo's ruins, the non-free ones, which look like a series of tiered gardens falling down the side of the mountain. Some folk consider these a warm-up for Machu Picchu. Some folk consider them an alternative. I shall let ye know in days to come.
Suffice to say, Ollantaytambo has yet to let me down on any front, and these ruins are no exception. As with every site we have been to, there's a trade-off between (a) no guide and no information on anything, or (b) guided tour that seems to bypass an awful lot of stuff plus costs you an extra tenner. We always skip the guide, given that any we see seem to tell you things you might have guessed, plus they tend to go a bit fast and leave you wondering what happened 'all over there at that bit we're walking past'.
So walk up some stairs, look around, Australians nearby, some local girls bound up steps as we are panting for breath, get to the top, guess at what this room might have been, look at the view, walk a path around the edge of the mountain that I probably shouldn't walk on, come back, see some more half-collapsed houses, wonder what it all looked like five hundred years ago, walk down stairs, see some dug-up ruins, leave.
Sounds crap, but it was excellent, unmissable. All you can smell at the top of the hill is the wild mint, saturating your senses. Wonderful nature.
Enough culture. Back in the very 'ok' bar we watched Real Madrid demolish Bayern Munich in on Tuesday, no one is about because no one cares about Valencia or Sevilla (or Juventus or Benfica for that matter) and we get good seats and beer, which instantly makes Sarah feel ill, so she gives it all to me, as I sit pulling my hair out and guldering at the performance in front of me. Every so often the cat that lives in the restaurant gets up, talks to someone, then sits down again, bothering Sarah in the process. Lunch was not very good.
After 94 minutes and 3 Valencia goals, somehow Sevilla find a goal from Stephane M'Bia's head with the last touch of the game, and Sevilla make it to the final of the Europa League. I cannot find words to describe the yoo-hooing and screaming I did, as I have lost my voice. Much less to find that Juve somehow drew 0-0 with Benfica in Turin. Unbelievable Geoff.
Back to the hostel, Sarah skypes home, I go to the internet cafe and upload some photos, we decide to stay in Ollantaytambo one more night to make sure she's feeling better before we head to MP, and then its out to a surprisingly nice restaurant that plays Pink Floyd's The Division Bell album throughout our dinner, followed by The Doors' Greatest Hits. I had a bowl of quinoa soup and a bottle of Peruvian red wine (semi-sweet) that tasted like Port at 11.5% that Sarah refused to drink (and I understood why). One of the stranger dinners we have enjoyed on this trip.
And now... 11pm... Sarah passed out... me still punching the air and grinning. A good day.
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