Possible Progress, Hoffahill : Ollantaytambo : Tues 29th Apr

I can't transcribe today's telephone call to the UK Passport Office, as Sarah spoke to them; also because the phonecall took about 40 minutes. Here's the condensed version (from outside the phone booth):

Sarah : "Hi John, its me again. You sent an escalation form to Peterborough and no one replied. This is phonecall number five or so, the forms were received on 3rd April at 9.04am, what's going on? (tears at this point) We are very stressed and not sleeping. No, we had our passports stolen. No, that was in Chile, we are in Peru. No, we have emergency travel documentation. That's like an emergency passport. You can't just go wherever you like with it. No, you need visas to get into Argentina and the United States. No, the British Embassy in La Paz said they would take receipt of them when they were mailed out by you guys. (long pause) John, is there a supervisor or someone I can speak to?"

Here's Ashleigh!

Sarah : "(repeats the whole bloody story again).  No, we don't have mobile phones. No, we don't have any phones, they were stolen. (to me : "She says that because of the Data Protection Act they can't email us any details, they have to contact us by phone" - surely thats a choice that we as the applicant should be able to make?) So why have Andrea and John been taking our email details and saying we would be contacted? No, I'm diabetic (edge of more tears), Im sick because I can't get the insulin I use at home here in South America" and so on for a bit.

Long and short, Ashleigh the manager spoke to her boss and then fired off an EMERGENCY email to Peterborough, explaining that (a) Sarah is diabetic (apparently this makes a difference), and (b) the phone number of our hostel and a note explaining that Peru is 6hrs behind the UK and that perhaps the person phoning ought to take that into consideration.

The system is bafflingly stupid. If its so important to speak over the phone, why isn't there a liaison officer for people overseas who don't have access to an inbound telephone? Then we could be given a number to phone, sent by email, and a code, and we would be able to call and speak to someone who vaguely understood what was going on. And why didn't ANYONE email to say "You need to contact customer services who will explain what's going on, as we aren't allowed to email you these details".

Sarah did well on the phone, I feel we are getting somewhere. She doesn't; she says she feels like she's up against more of a wall than ever. By this point it has started raining in Ollantaytambo, making this the first day since 28th December where the weather where we are is worse than the weather back home. Damn it.

At least our hostel is a massive step up from the last place. It doesn't smell of DAMP, for a start. Dante and Veronica run the place with their two kids and are a nice, helpful family. We move up to the room we had booked, now available after a good cleaning after the weekend, and now we have a balconette with a mountain view. Hopefully it's a little quieter than the ground floor spot we had, comfy but right beside the breakfast area.

Ollantaytambo is what is described as 'a living Inca village'. If it wasn't for the endless number of tourist mini-vans ploughing up and down the road to entrance to the tiered gardens, all the associated prucky shops and stalls catering for aforementioned tourists, and a screed of backpackers skulking around trying to get decent coffee, cheap beer and half-price cushion covers, then you might forget exactly what decade you were in.

That might be pushing it a bit, but basically this is a beautiful mountain village that manages to make a living from a bucketload of foreigners being swept into view every day, and somehow still keeps its character. In the nicest possible way, there's simply nothing to do here. You walk the cobbled streets, spot a ruin or two, have some lunch or dinner, walk the roads around the mountains, and by that time you better be tired: it gets dark about 5.15pm.

So we walk out of town along the Street of A Hundred Windows, along to Punka Punka ('Gate of Gates'), towards Choqana, but realise its a bit far, walk back, get barked at, take a different road, end up at the back end of the Plaza de Armas looking into the municipal market, yet again wondering how to eat prickly pears which I have just seen growing wild on cacti, before noticing the sun is now out and hot and I need a layer of suncream.

I'd love to fill in more details about all these architectural treasures, but truth be told I just don't know much about them. I'm sure to historians or archaeologists these sites are all links in a chain, helping them piece together Incan life. For someone who grew up in Carrickfergus, which has a hell of a lot of auld walls just stuck around the place, they can be a bit superfluous.

Ah, whitewashing. Wonderful.

Not that its boring, its not, and I can easily imagine spending a week or so here, pottering around and looking at things, getting out of breath every so often walking too hard too fast up a hill, and revelling in the tranquility of the place. This is a much more attractive prospect that some English pub in Benedorm and a crap beach to go with it. Still, we end up in a little restaurant on the Plaza de Armas, eating lunch, watching Real Madrid thrashing Bayern Munich in the Champions League. Stunning stuff. The same cannot be said for the lunch. Sarah is happy to have found somewhere with decent internet; one solid failing of Hospedaje Inti Killa.

As the afternoon begins to wane, we set out to climb up a bit of Pinkuylluna. Whilst the famed Fortress on the opposing mountain requires the boleto turistico to get in, Pinkuylluna is free, a steep and ragged path up the side of the mountain to a ludicrous ruined barracks and temple with epic views. Sarah makes it up to the first ruin, a small granary, but her vertigo is unforgiving. I press on, first to the barracks, which look more like the abandoned eaves of a church, and finally up to the pinnacle, overseen by a giant rock which (depending on your medication) looks like a giant face: an 'Apu', or God Protector, according to the Inca, this one names 'Tunupa'. That's your cultural information for this evening. Like all Incan things, you wonder just how long it took to make it, and who really thought it was worth the bother in the first place. The path is more a series of steps, big rocks, set into the earth and following the curve of the mountain. It doesn't seem as dangerous as it looks. The barracks are large and eerie, and some French folk are lingering. Another ten minutes, heart pounding, I get to the top. There's a beardy guy taking photos and a man in a black jacket in the lotus position, absorbing the rays as the sun drops. Lovely, but its getting dark. I carefully wind my way back down, collecting Sarah, and finally back out onto Calle Lares Kikllu. The sun has dipped behind the mountains and the yellow glow is starting to fade.

It's 8.30pm now. Emails sent, blog written, a low-key end to the day. Sarah is tucked up in bed keeping warm, and tomorrow will see us tackle the Fortress ruins, provided it doesn't bloody rain.

Oh my, there are some Germans in the room beside us and they are being happy and noisy. This cannot end well. It sounds like they're old... and in the shower together.

Brief Photo Relief, Plus Monday : Cusco to Ollantaytambo : Mon 28th Apr

 Here´s some photos of things you may have wanted to see over the past few days. This is the view from Saqsaywaman.

 These are LLAMAS!

Here you can see Cusco's Plaza de Armas.

Monday morning. Apparently I have snored all night. Then I think I have lost my wallet. It was under my little bluetooth keyboard. That is how today started.

It's still cold here. My shoulder is still crap no matter how many pills I swallow. Perhaps I ought to give up blogging too. But then I might lose the only connection I have with the rest of the world.

And Spanish keyboards - so many keys in places I just don't need them.

Onto the phone to Belfast Passport Office yet again. Hello to Andrea:

Me: I'm really sorry that you're the person who's going to hear this, but I'm getting really angry with being ignored. I phoned Thursday week ago and received no reply from Peterborough, my girlfriend phoned on Thursday past and has received no reply to the emergency email sent, I feel we're just being ignored.

Andrea: I understand how you feel (NOT YOU DON'T ANDREA, YOU'VE NEVER BEEN IN THIS SITUATION BEFORE), but its still within 72 hours for Peterborough to respond to your emergency email, and I can't flag up the non-response to your email from 11 days ago because then there would be two escalation emails in the system. And why did you send your application to Peterborough, it's Durham that deals with overseas applications.

Me (frustration growing): Because the Peterborough address was the only address mentioned on the application form. Ok, well in that case what happens tomorrow if Peterborough have still not gotten back to me?

Andrea: I can't deal with hypothetical situations.

God help the person who answers the phone to Sarah tomorrow, and to the person who received the email from Willie McCrea MP.

Not to mention that, but we receive hot water and bread for breakfast. No JAM. No BUTTER. BREAD. It is like someone has lit a small fire underneath Sarah.

At least I can finally withdraw cash from my N&P account.

Our bags are packed and we go to pay. A new lady has appeared and we hand over PNS$132. She asks if everything was ok.

Cue 'New Sarah'.

Suddenly we are being reimbursed PNS$42 and receiving earnest apologies. It turns out Inversiones Siete Angelitos is up for sale owing to having no guests whatsoever. In fact, 'the boys' were on their way over that moment to evaluate it. 'Does that explain why there is no hot water, no heat, no breakfast, just damp and cold?' asks the plucky girl from Nutts Corner. Apparently it does. Her disgruntlement works wonders.

Out the door we go and in search of breakfast. A taxi pulls up alongside us and we jump in, I assume we can get breakfast near the little mini-van depot we are going to. Naturally I am wrong. We end up in a little cafe at 10.10am, me with a bowl of caldo de gallina and arroz a la cubana (a striking breakfast treat of boiled white rice, fried banana, chips, and a fried egg on top). Mmmmmm. Sarah has a Tayto Cheese n Onion bap or two.

I am sad to leave Cusco. It has been a while now since we have had to take a bus anywhere. I have gotten out of the habit and the idea of travelling for a couple of hours is depressing me. This, however, is not a regular bus journey. Ollantaytambo is not served by a proper bus company, instead you take a little servicio, or mini-van, to get there. These hang around on Avenida Grau until they are full, then all the passengers split the cost at PNS$10 a head, which is a bargain. Unless, of course, you don't like the idea of a mini-van with your rucksack on the roof whizzing round mountainsides without railings, in which case you will be petrified. Like Sarah.

It is one of the most beautiful journeys I have ever taken in my life. The Sacred Valley is handsome, green hills stretching up to the sky, somehow with a backdrop of snow-covered peaks. It is what I imagine Switzerland looks like. But better.

We pass through a couple of places (Chinchero, Urubamba) that I am delighted we have chosen to leave out. Suddenly we are driving up a cobblestone road, impossibly narrow. This is Ollantaytambo. Out we jump at the Plaza de Armas and into the Hostel Inti Killa (pizzeria to the side, nice!)

We have a private room, we have hot water, we have a private bathroom, we have a stone pizza oven. Life has improved dramatically in the past couple of hours. Then we visit the rooftop terrace. The view is really a bit incredible.

A quick walk around the square, a tasty lunch in a Mexican restaurant, a wander down the the edge of the ruins, look at some prucky stalls, back up to the square, a decent coffee whilst Sarah phones home, suddenly its 6pm. Now its 7pm. What on earth could happen this evening? Who knows, but I do know one thing: the internet in Ollantaytambo isn't exactly fast!

Stalking Dogs : Cusco : Wed 23rd - Sun 27th Apr

Wednesday. The dogs are swarming on the streets of Cusco. You can hear them howl in the night from some faraway street, a yelp or two nearby when they fight, and during the day they lie in heaps by the side of the road, making life difficult for Sarah who has to cross to the other side to avoid them, in case they turn out to be less placid than their sleeping faces suggest.

More bread, improving stomachs, another day with the boleto turistico and the museums of Cusco. Today we face Qoricancha, the centre of the Incan world, a beautiful temple to the Sun God Inti which Francisco Pizarro tore down and stuck a Franciscan monestary on top of. Not noted for their cultural sensitivities, the Conquistadores.

It turns out to be the walled gardens we have been walking past every day on Av El Sol, a lush grassy area with staggered ledges for trees and shrubs, topped by an impressive church. The Museo Del Sitio De Qoricancha is underground, half a dozen rooms of pottery and figurines, the same things you see everywhere, whether in tourist shops or every other museum in the entire city. Most interesting is probably the collection of photographs of Cusco a hundred years ago. So little has changed except the shape of the cars.

The monestary itself is full of tourists wandering in groups and having some bricks pointed out to them. By this point one aspect of historical tourism in Cusco is apparent: an awful lot of time is spent pointing out the same facts in many different museums, whilst a lot of things are noticably absent. Where are the details on Incan society structures, relationships, the complex philosophical and religious views they held? At one point in the monestary you find two huge paintings side by side, one a star chart of the Milky Way, the other a diagram of lines stretching out from Cusco throughout the entire Incan empire. Each line ran through a number of Incan cities, hundreds of miles from each other.How? Meanwhile, rather than identify shapes that the stars made, the Incas found the shapes of the mystical animals in the blackness between the stars. You can see outlines of llamas, pumas, apparently a fox in there as well, with two bright red eyes. It's all glazed over a bit. Perhaps a look at Garcilaso de la Vega's History of the Inca will reveal some of these secrets, but when Incan history is the lifeblood of Cusco you'd think they might provide a more comprehensive picture of what the society actually involved.

So that's me glazing over Qoricancha, but truth be told there's only so much to say about something that once was incredible but now has something on top of it. The place is awash with things that maybe were something, but who really knows? All we really learn is that Cusco city is constructed in the shape of a puma, and that the Inca had a cyclical concept of time. A lot of reading to be done when I get home, I think.

We call into Paddy's Irish Pub (with a name like that? Surely not!), the highest Irish-owned pub in the world (apparently) but it's bunged with folk watching Real Madrid v Bayern Munich, so we end up in Papacho's Burger Place next door, where a tasty veal burger is the meal of the day, accompanied by a quinoa beer. The beer was not as exciting as it sounds.In fact, it was about as mediocre as the football that we watched. Given that it followed the awesomely dull Athletico Madrid - Chelsea game the day before, that's really saying something. At least the food was good (although fecking expensive).

We have just enough time to call into the Museum of Sacred and Medicinal Plants before sundown. There we learn, from a wealth of laminated cards in English, about the coca leaf and the history of cocaine (not to mention the wilful ignorance of the health benefits and cultural importance of the leaf by the United Nations). About half the museum is dedicated to coca, followed up with plenty on tobacco (interestingly named after the native name for the island of Tobago) and the ayahuasca ceremony. You finish off with a few big books of medicinal herbs and a brief diatribe about Bio-piracy. Basically its a museum dedicated to noting how Western Europeans have taken ny number of plants and medicines from indigenous American cultures and abused them out of their healing context. Tobacco was certainly never meant to be smoked in the form of cigarettes.

Feeling enlightened, we browse through some shops on our way back, Sarah as ever searching for presents. This time nothing jumps out at us, and back at the hostel we make polite conversation with fellow guests before calling it a day.

Thursday. As you know by now, Thursdays ae mostly devoted to watching Sevilla´s Europa League campaign. This week is the first leg of the semi-finals, Sevilla at home and facing Valencia, a team I have no love for whatsoever. A big win is required ahead of the away game, knowing Valencia thrashed Basel 5-0 in the quarter-finals in the Mestalla. I am excited to say the least. Accompanying us today are Mishka and Belinda, from Australia, although Mishka´s origins lie in the gargantuan Moscow.

At Norton Rat Bar, a British motorcycle themed establishment on the Plaza De Armas, you can buy their own beer at PNS$10 a pint, a veritable bargain considering some of the muck we´ve drunk in Peru. Sitting at the bar, big tv on and all to ourselves, I sample the Brown Ale, dry and malty and a little thin but not inoffensive, whilst Sarah tackles the Pale Ale, deliciously grapefruity with some peach and apple on the edges. She falls in love with the Blonde, a standard but well constructed golden beer, and eventually I get a pint of the Porter, which deserves its reputation whilst not obviously emulating any of the big names.

I guldered at the tv for 90 minutes and Sevilla finished 2-0, good but definitely not done. Next Thursday will be stressful.

We hang around much longer than we ought to, swapping travel stories, life of the Irish and global perceptions of the Emerald Isle, and finally dip into Russian literature, idiom, and somehow finish on the lessons to be learned from Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus. At 9pm, an hour before they are due to catch their bus, we head back to the hostel, wish them well, have a cup of tea or two, and collapse into bed after midnight, no ill effects from the demon drink to be had, but wishing we had bought a Big Mac meal on our way home.

Friday. I´m not saying there were sore heads, but we definitely could have done without a hiccup in our plans. As it was, negligence had left me without cash in my N&P bank account, the one that´s free-to-use abroad, and we had a PNS$360 bill to pay at Pan-Tastico. It was a full house for the hostel and we were moving on to another hostel, a mere five minutes walk away. A pity then that, between check-out at 10am and when we finally left at 6.30pm, we were bumming around, wasting time, making loose plans for the coming weeks and not really getting much done. An Indian buffet for lunch broke up the time, we dandered around a few pruck shops, but nothing worthwhile. In the lobby of Pan-tastico, drinking coffee and eating cookies we were no longer entitled to, we checked the N&P website every hour. Surely it would go in at midnight GMT? Apparently not. Finished with hanging around, I took the Nationwide fee and paid out bill, reluctantly stepping out into the evening and finding ourselves outside Inversiones Siete Angelitos. Or, as our initial impression would be, prison. Again.

Possibly a little unfair, but then you could generously describe the cheapest hostel in the area as 'a work in progress'. We seemed to be the only guests when we arrived, which meant having a six bed dorm to ourselves, but then we also discovered our bathroom was utterly unusable with nice big patches of dam`p swelling the corners of the ceiling. Yes, this is what PNS$25 gets you a night in Cusco. That includes breakfast. Most of the more expensive places don´t. Enough said.

We hung around long enough to get changed, then headed out, meeting our Kiwi companions at the Plazoleta San Blas to go for a drink. Warned by our host that getting back into the hostel might be difficult later, we arranged to be back for 11pm. Needless to say we were later than that, and greeted a grumpy chap at the door, closer to midnight.

Our plan to head to La Jardin Secreto for beer and live music was usurped by our curfew, so we stayed in San Blas, finding ourselves in Kilometer Cero, handy, tiny, and with delicious chicken wings for dinner. Our fine evening of Cusqueña beer and a rather bad Machu Picchu cocktail (mint licquer, orange juice and ´red´ alcohol all floating in a glass) had barely begun, the bad on the stage somehow banging out a latin version of Robbie William´s Angels, before we realised getting back into prison might be getting a little more difficult, and we parted company far too early.

The rain had started, it was cold, and we crawled into bed, a busy weekend ahead.

Saturday. Another cold day. Our weekend plans of eliminating yet more cultural sites is vague. Should we head out of town to Pisaq or Moray and Maras? Our new prison offers up a familiar basic breakfast of baps and butter and jam and hot water, which isn't bad considering. But you notice that the hostel is out of the sun, its cold in our room, although we appreciate just how quiet our new street is. We have a couple of restaurants with eager beaver staff and a mini market / laundrette across the road. Sure there's some dogs in the distance, and for some reason someone keeps setting off fireworks during the day, but its certainly not one thing we could complain about. I shan't be as unforgiving as the tepid trickle of water coming from the shower.

So we settle ourselves on visiting the stupidly close historic ruin of Saqsaywaman, commonly referred to in tourist parlance as 'sexy woman', though its more like SocksyWamman. Its the site of a famous battle between the Conquistadors and the Inca, and the closest of four separate historical spots all on the same road, though stretching out 8km over the hills and far away.

A wander back towards the Plazoleta San Blas reveals a little craft market and, as Sarah says 'You just don't have much interest in buying anything anymore, do you?' we stumble across a little woman selling handmade scarves (she was sitting weaving them there and then) and I finally buy myself a present that isn't a football shirt. We get our photos taken with her. There is no discount for buying multiples, a sure sign that we are getting the real thing.

My bank card still refuses to yield any cash for free, and we return to the hostel where I phone N&P, only to discover my 'faster payment' from Nationwide to Norwich And Peterborough missed the Friday deadline and thus won't transfer until midnight Sunday night at the earliest. Damn. I withdraw yet more expensive money from Nationwide. For all of you out there who travel a lot, I heartily recommend N&P's Gold Light Account, it has saved me an utter fortune on this holiday.

Task number two is to transfer the contents of our camera onto a DVD in a little internet cafe. We try that. An hour later, wasting time and writing some of this, our first disk dies in the burner. We leave the SD card with the chap in the shop and go for lunch, a delicious combination of Sopa de Quinoa (always excellent) and my first Alpaca steak, which is very like lean frying steak, and came in a thick rosemary sauce. Hard to complain at that combination for PNS$18.

At 2pm we collect our new DVD of photos, our SD card, and with another anti-inflammatory down my throat we begin the steep climb to Saqsaywaman. It takes about 20 minutes to rise up above the Plaza De Armas and find ourselves surrounded by men offering horseback riding (which isn't allowed in the national park) and little pots of choclo, a warm maize snack. We also catch our first glimpse of llamas just, you know, hanging around and grazing. Hardly any people about asking for money for taking a photo of them at all!

The site is covered by the boleto turistico, and its located on a hill overlooking the whole Cusco city. I shall have some photos here posthaste, as the valley is beautiful, green, barely a three-story building breaking the view. Great grey clouds roll back and forth over Cusco, over the whole surrounding area, and you can watch the rain streaking down dozens of miles away. It spits a little around us as we ascend but fortunately no worse than that.

Saqsaywaman is a huge site, much bigger than anything else we had seen, and probably a good primer for Machu Picchu. Enormous and intimidating grey blocks seal off steeply tiered levels which the Inca defended fiercely. How on earth anyone attacked this complex is a mystery, because you would be utterly breathless on the charge, you'd probably just cowp over and die. I masticate away at my coca leaves which I assert are helping with the varying altitudes, and Sarah gives me a stern anti-drug look, which I ignore. The evidence suggests that a teaspoon of coca flour every day would help end the vitamin and mineral deficiencies of two hundred million people, so rich is the leaf. Good job its still banned because some people can't sit in the pub without a little bag of marching powder to aid their inane conversations.

Grrrr.

The Kiwis had recommended we take advantage of a guide up on the hill, but sadly no one seemed to be about and offering their services, so we followed the path in reverse, none of which made any sense, and took some great photos instead. An awful lot of Germans were milling around at the top, all very underwhelmed by the whole thing, and a couple of guys were kicking a football around, which you aren't allowed to do. We could hear men cheering in the distance and an awful lot of dogs barking, and from around a hill came the sound of a Radio One Roadshow, except it was all classical music. Strange atmosphere indeed. We roamed around at length, spotted a lot more llamas and alpacas, a shepherdess encouraging them on with a stick beaten off an empty plastic bottle, and lots of people without very much idea what was going on here at all. Cusco suffers a little from day tourists, bussed in from nearby Urubamba, who look at the pretty buildings and pay top dollar in a fancy restaurant on the Plaza De Armas, then get whisked back in a bus for bedtime. Its not really that sort of a city. In fact, eight days after our arrival, I'm still a little loathe to leave here, because there's so much to do and explore. The city has a very different feel depending on whether the sun is shining or obscured by Ulster clouds, or whether its day, night, weekday, weekend, its always changing. And Cusco is alive, a city and district capital that pulses with humanity outside of the shallow touristic experience. When you spot union parades, police standing around in gangs for no apparent reason, odd little street fairs selling fresh produce of no use to the casual visitor, and all the other people all pursuing their own agenda, you know that when the chaps endlessly asking you if you want to buy their paintings from their leather portfolios on the street go home, there is a side to this city that you need a keen eye and a lot of patience to truly uncover.

That said, sometimes a shallow experience works too. We descend from SexyWoman, down steep staircases to streets with little women selling woolen hats off rugs, and find our way back to the Plaza de Armas, Norton Rat Pub our destination again. We watch some football highlights and play some pool. Actually, we play a lot of pool, and Sarah starts showing some skills. "Don't play like Moyes" I preach "You have to take risks, because if you don't take risks you can't achieve greatness" at which point I send the white ball across the table and miraculously sink some balls I had no physical right to do. Sarah glares again. Luckily later, when she starts winning every game, I'm not such a bad loser. But then she is much more competitive than me.

We meet a few Canadians who stagger in later, a few guys from Scarborough in Toronto (or 'Scar-town' as its popularly known, due to its gentle reputation for gang violence) and I end up teaching them how to play darts, which I thought everyone knew how to play. Suddenly, however, we are hungry, and we depart the now-busy pub for the cool streets of Cusco. A few feet away from our hostel we are encouraged into our local pizzeria, where at long last we receive a decent pizza, and we warm ourselves next to the stone oven. It doesn't last very long though, our tiredness overwhelming, and we are safely tucked up before 11pm.

That leaves today, Sunday. Only two things on my mind: football and ballet. Not a normal combination, but I shall explain. Today Sevilla play Athletic Bilbao in San Mames stadium, should they win then both will be on the same points, and challenging for the elusive fourth spot in the Spanish League, the remaining Champions League spot. Should Sevilla lose, they could virtually give up on that hope. Not to mention that they have the Europa League game on Thursday ahead of them, arguably more important.

Basic breakfast out of the way, a few emails sent, and we darken the doors of Norton Rat one more time hoping to watch the football and eat a decent breakfast. Fat chance. Some Americans want to watch the MotoGP. Who on earth watches motorbike racing on tv? We exit and try Paddy's, where everyone is about to watch a repeat of the Liverpool v Chelsea game. No thanks. The Secret Garden doesn't have DirecTV, and I've given up hope of seeing it when we stumble across Bar Indigo, a Thai themed bar that is hosting a Dutch Party. Yes, I was confused too. Later on I see a poster and realise they are celebrating the Netherlands' first king in over a century. Later still we spot some of the Dutch staggering back to a noted 'party' hostel. Cusco has a fierce reputation as a party town. We are delighted to have avoided any such locales.

Anyway, the bar is happy to show the Sevilla game and feed us Pad Thai and Bami Goreng (nice!) as a group of middle aged Dutch folk sing along to famous Dutch pop songs, including the international 'A Pizza Hut, Kentucky Fried Chicken and A Pizza Hut'. Sarah has no patience for this type of fun today, nor for the drunken Australians in the corner in their wifebeaters all looking like minor-league thugs. We just never get invited to parties, and we are okay with it.

So Sevilla get beaten 3-1 and go ten-men down, but it wasn't a bad showing, and the line-up suggests everyone relevant was being saved for Thursday's adventure anyway.

Back out into the baking Sunday heat, the sun powering down on us, and our next destination is clear: the Teatro Municipal. Earlier in the week we spotted a poster outside a museum advertising a free ballet show. It turns out that the Ministerio de Cultura, in its remit to ensure public access to the Arts, has sponsored a nationwide tour of the Ballet Nacional to perform some classic dances along with one modern piece. We intended to go on Saturday night, but Sarah considered herself under-dressed for such a cultural event, so we put it off a day.

A wander round San Pedro market, nice leather bags and lots of pruck and dead meat and tourists drinking fruit juices, and we end up outside the theatre with a hundred or so other folk just after 2.30pm. Half an hour later and the queue stretches to the end of the street. The 600 guest limit will easily be met. We take turns stepping off the pavement and out of the hot sun, and just after 3pm we file into the theatre, getting decent seats with a head-on view of the stage. There seem to be a hell of a lot of young children here. Naturally they turn out to have little to no interest in the proceedings, having more fun just running up and down and screaming. Sarah and I are clearly the whitest human beings to have ever set foot in this theatre, which is unusual.

At 4pm we get treated to four pieces; the pas de deux from Swan Lake, another pas de deux, this time from El Corsario, then a fine Spanish-themed piece called Majistero, and after the interval we have a new work called 'Degas', a tribute to Edgar Degas's paintings of ballerinas. Whilst the first three dances were in the classical style, the 'Degas' featured classical, neo-classical, and modern interpretative dancing. For my first ballet I have to admit it was excellent. Sarah was rightly spellbound. Best free ninety minutes I've had in a long time.

So here I am typing this up at 11.10pm, sitting in the strange little duplex at the back of our hostel, Sarah watching a broken television screen showing everything in green with Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets in Spanish. We are packed, ready to head off in the morning to Ollantaytambo where the Inti Killa hostel awaits, along with more ruins, more small towns, and another stinking phonecall to the UK Passport Office. Sarah is not planning to be too polite this time, we have been ignored twice now. I don't think there will be a third time.

Catching Your Breath : Cusco : Mon 21st & Tues 22nd Apr

Easter Monday back home, pretty regular day here in Cusco. No trips to St John's Point to enjoy a picnic in the car whilst a hurricane rages around us, no. The simple company of churches, that's how we shall pass this day.

There is logic to this. Visitors to Cusco find (often frustratingly) that the main attractions are all covered by a single boleto turistico, a catch-all pass that sets you back PNS$130 but gets you into sixteen different sites. The pass lasts for ten days, covers eight museums or similar, four sets of ruins just outside Cusco, plus a further four ruins at villages in the surrounding Sacred Valley area. Time it right and you can definitely get your money's worth.

The little problem on the side is that many other attractions, mostly churches, are not included on the ticket. Logically then you go and see the churches first, then the sites on the card, and when all is said and done you finish up in Ollantaytambo, the village closest to the little town of Aguas Calientes, jumping off point for Machu Picchu.

Pan-tastico! continues its tradition of fine bready breakfasts, we spend a while chatting to some of our fellow guests, rather a lot of French folk staying here, plus some rather cheerful German men, one of whom sports a green 'Irish Yoga' t-shirt. I was somewhat bemused by an upstanding German looking to the Irish for advice on how to drink.

We make our first stop at the Museo Maximo Laura, for some reason one of the top destinations on Tripadvisor, something to do with textiles. Of course, all becomes clear when we arrive. Maximo Laura is a feted international artist who creates enormous panels of colour, combining traditional Incan art with cubist influences. The tapestries are stunning. Like most museums we visit here, no photos, whether flash or not, and no filming. Worth every Sol we didn't spend on it (the museum is free entry. Of course, you might decide to buy one of Laura's pieces for an unspecified sum...)

Sarah tries to purchase some gifts from a street urchin, but we have no change. We walk down to the nearest Scotiabank and queue for twenty minutes to exchange our PNS$100 notes for smaller denominations. By the time we get back the urchin is gone. No gifts today.

Off we totter towards the Plaza de Armas yet again, our preferred destination is the Catedral de Cusco, enormous, beautiful, and sadly a rather pricey PNS$25 to get in. We think that includes another church as well, but its not clear, and the entrance is swamped with gangs of organised tourists all waving little sheets of authorisation in their hands. Best to back and head to the nearest alternative, the Templo de la Compania de Jesus, built on top of the original Inca temple here in what the Inca's considered to be 'The Bellybutton Of The World".

This one only costs PNS$6 each, and for that you get an enormous building with some fine artwork, a wee wander around upstairs where you can look out upon the Plaza De Armas, plus a brief trip into the crypt to see a small hole in ground; below us are the remains of the Incan temple, which looks a lot like no one has been down there in quite a while. It is surprising sometimes to be in churches and feel they don't fully exploit their touristic potential. But, of course, these are still churches.

I stop and look at the incredible artistic legacy left behind by Christianity, in spite of whatever feelings I harbour regarding religion, and two questions come to me: what will become of all these churches as the church continues to decline? These are, even for heathens like myself, often an essential go-to in any city. And secondly, what artistic heritage has the humanist tradition left behind? Whilst it is oxymoronic to talk about humanist beliefs, what have we put in place to promote our way of thinking, not just in word but in image? What public places for thought and solace are we offering those in need? Even I find it physically relaxing and mentally stimulating to sit in a fine church and consider the world.

We strike out into the daylight and decline to buy nice but expensive religious pruck at the shop next door. A short distance away is La Merced, next church on our route. This time, however, we are swamped in religious art; a courtyard with frescos, a few enormous paintings of miracles that some basic human beings had scratched their names on to, and a collection of items heavy with gold, silver, diamonds, pearls, and countless precious stones. Sarah goes into a fury when the curators follow us into the galleries, watching us watching things. She also goes a bit crazy when the assistants approach us too quickly in the shops.

Throughout our time in La Merced we are serenaded by a child who was torturing a trumpet, the cries of children howling along to church songs, and the yelps from a gang of tracksuit clad schoolchildren practicing kung-fu. Not what we expected, as per usual.

By 4pm hunger has struck for both of us. Sarah, whilst improving, is still wary of eating, and we find ourselves in an Indian buffet restaurant serving a selection of vegetarian dishes and chicken or beef curries. Very tasty. Sarah declines to join me on the PNS$15 all you can eat experience.

Cusco cools down quickly once you are out of the sun. It's a tricky city to prepare for; on one hand you want to wear shorts and t-shirts, and make sure you have suntan lotion on, but on the other hand you need layers with you for when you enter a church or museum and it gets awfully cold. The sun also sets here about 5pm, an hour earlier than Lima, falling away behind the mountains and bathing the Plaza de Armas in soft light. We settle ourselves on the steps in front of the cathedral and people-watch for a while.

A local indigenous lady sits beside us and begins knitting. The Plaza is awash with groups of tourists. Some rude people sit down the steps from us and persist in trying to take a picture of the lady, who lifts her hat down over her head. She is unwilling to be photographed, that's not her role here in the city. One rude tourist just stands pointing his camera at her, waiting for her to move her hat. I feel that the distance between Western tourists and the Incan culture, which they proclaim such love and respect for, couldn't be further. The voyeurism is disgusting. So many people utterly disconnected from the reality of what they are viewing. They don't understand the humanity behind what they snapping pictures of, no comprehension of the lives the people endure. After the rude tourists depart we speak to the lady. She is knitting a jumper for her shop around the corner. She asks where we come from and tells us she is from Puno, but is here in Cusco to work. It is a simple conversation but it makes us feel a little more respectful.

I know that tourism is often voyeurism, in fact it can be hard to avoid being that person taking photographs of people simply eeking out an existence, selling boiled quail's eggs from a cart so they can afford to feed their children. Even as a non-believer its a type of voyeurism to wander in and out of churches, watching people cross themselves and praying to saints that they fervently believe can offer them relief. Driving through shanty-towns on the edge of cities, walking through favelas, you can even head to the hellish mines of Potosi in Bolivia and see what sort of conditions the miners have to endure through their short working lives. It is fascinating but ugly all at the same time. The question remains: if you don't go to these places to look at things, why do you go?

We try and relieve ourselves by buying locally made produce, making small contributions to the local economy where possible, and trying to not intrude where we aren't wanted. Some people consider tourism as a God-given right to thrash your way through cultures around the planet, bemoaning how backward these people are, imagine not being able to put your toilet paper down the toilet, but into a bin! I know I would like to put a lot more detail into this blog about names, dates, events, but I just can't remember them when it comes time to type. There must be some sort of compromise that doesn't just result in sitting on a beach for a week re-reading Michel Houllebecq or Roberto Bolano.

Back at the hostel we stop for the night. Sarah watches 'Bridesmaids', I have lost myself in a copy of Stephen King's Night Shift which is lying around the hostel. We aren't tired but head to bed about 1am. We had thought we had the room to ourselves but, late in the day, another chap turns up and we have to share. Sarah is distracted by a hundred different things right now and this does nothing for her mood.

Tuesday morning and we have decided to go and buy our boleto turistico. The storm of the previous night is gone, although the sky over Cusco is not one to be predicted as clouds roll in and out without reason or warning. It is beautiful sitting in our hostel, high in the city, and look out at the shadows rolling across the tops of the red slate houses and around the surrounding hills.

A walk to the wrong end of Avenida El Sol and the tourist office is closed, so back up to the other end, accompanied by a union march of a few thousand people. Lots of chanting, lots of police, no trouble whatsoever. Below the office where we buy our tickets (PNS$130, write your name on the front, gets you into each site once and only once, valid for ten days) is the Museo de Arte Popular, a collection of little figurines made every year around Christmas and sold to the local people who buy them to bring luck to their homes. For 75 years the council has bought up the best pieces for posterity, and you can see them all here. From a little Joseph, Mary and Jesus made out of cutlery to tiny silver faceless figures climbing mountains, a colourful clay village on a hillside, and dozens of musicians and dancers, there are a wealth of ideas all playing on a theme. It's a good coherent collection.

Next up is the Museo Historico Regional. Another courtyard, another countless number of paintings, mostly religious, supplemented by some interesting and specific information on the lives of Jose Gabriel Tupac Amaru, hero of the Americas for fighting against the injustice of the Spanish Crown and torn apart by horses for his troubles, and El Inca Garcilaso de la Vega, a mestizo of royal Incan heritage who wrote the first accounts of the history of the indigenous peoples of the Andes back in the 16th Century.

By now, however, I have a little religious burnout. When you start to see, over and over again, the same imagery painted by different hands (in La Merced, at the back of the church, are three copies of the same painting of Jesus on the cross hanging beside each other. That, surely, is overkill). After lunch will be the Museo Municipal de Arte Contemporaneo. First is lunch.

We find ourselves in a little courtyard with a Menu del Dia of PNS$12, which is really a bit silly cheap. Sarah, being careful, orders a custom made dish of pollo a la plancha (grilled chicken) and rice, whilst I try their sopa de quinoa followed by bisteck a la plancha. The soup is excellent, the steak is not, but at less than three quid for lunch I'm not complaining. Sarah is a little outraged to be charged PNS$25 for her chicken and rice, but the waiter isn't for moving. We depart with the two of them on bad terms. A shame, I would have gone back for that soup.

For the first time in 5 months we run into two people we had met previously, an English couple we were on the boat with at Paracas in Peru. Quick chat, away we go.

Our final stop of the day turned out to be a little strange. What should have been a museum of contemporary art was more like council offices with some paintings on sale around it. No one showed the slightest interest in our boletos. Good job. Five minutes of wandering and we were away.

Once again the heat vanished from Cusco and we were in conditions akin to an Ulster summer. An hour was spent searching some shops for our lady of the previous evening, and we eventually found her on her way home, so nothing could be bought from her today. I resist the temptation to buy a bronze condor ("Only a hundred and seventy sir, nice price!") and our day out is done.

No bad tummies from lunch, things are improving.

On our way home I purchase a couple of small bags of coca leaves from a little lady in the street. One sol a bag, I have been curious about the coca leaf 'chewing' ritual for a while. You basically put a leaf or two into your cheek, moisten, masticate a little, and once you have built up a little ball you add something to release the alkaloids, like bicarb of soda or a little ash. I used toothpaste, which did the same thing. The result is a little like drinking mate, but leaves you with a very fresh tasting mouth and without a full bladder.So that's that then!

I risk a couple of beers in the hostel, Cusquena red, better than most but not actually good, and we enjoy the company of Nancy and Jamie, our New Zealand peers. The night flies in, and we retire, early-ish, about 11.30pm.

Dire (Gut) Straits : Lima & Cusco : Fri 18th - Sun 20th Apr

Patience with the 1900 Hostel ran out somewhere very early on Friday morning. There were little tiny roaches running around our lockers, the place was just far too noisy, and the pool table was a shambles. Thank God we were into our last 24 hours there. This good fortune was overshadowed by the return of Sarah's bad tummy bug, back with a vengeance and determined to make its presence felt.

The poor dear was struck down something horrid, stuck in bed almost all day. Nasty cramps, almost certainly due to some bad water somehow breaking into our food chain. It wasn't funny at all, awful stomach cramps and all the associated ills. I took a walk to find a chemist and returned with miracle pills called Espasmo something which eliminated those particular cramps, but which were not good for long term problems. Plus they only stop the spasms, not all the other stuff. Bad times.

I, somewhat better, am only suffering the misery of my recurrent trapped nerve, which has left me with permanent pins and needles down my arm again. Sleeping and walking, sitting and typing, no amount of stretches or exercises makes a difference. I expect another cheerful physiotherapy bill when I return home (although this time I shall be popping a course of anti-inflammatories before I even get there).

Anyway, Friday was a write-off. We walk as far as the shopping centre, five minutes away, and I get a burger for lunch. Sarah tries a few chips but the result is instanteous and painful, and we return to the hostel posthaste. I take a few hours to update my recent blog entries with a lot more photos, send an email or two, then get packed. The rucksacks are swollen with stuff, and we dispose of our bonus bag of food and liquids, none of which will make the journey to Cusco. I also leave the dregs of my bottle of Chileno pisco. Sarah, sentimental as ever, is disturbed at leaving a bottle of warm, flat Coke behind. A waste of money, she thinks, in her feverish state.

1900 Hostel is host to some sort of Good Friday party, and the music runs all night long. We try and sleep about midnight, but between our ailments and the noise, nothing doing. At 4am, eyes burning a little, we descend the stairs with relief and climb into a taxi bound for Jorge Chavez International Airport.

Lima is a monumental to traffic chaos, so taking a cab throught the abandoned 4am streets is revelatory. I wouldn't go so far as to call it beautiful (Sarah said her mother would have refered to it as Sticksville) but anyone who can imagine an urban landscape pairing Gengormley with the Boucher Road will understand. Its a city, nothing more, nothing less. Bars are closed, no hoodlums are hanging around the corners, the roads are empty until we reach the signs welcoming us, yet again, to the Municipality of Callao. Round the roundabout we go and into the airport carpark. PNS$40 lighter (what seems to be the standard fee to the airport from anywhere in the city) and we are ready to deal with Airport Security.

Lima Airport, somewhat like Dublin Airport, does not seem to cease at any time of the day. Gentle crowds roam around the check-in terminal, and we sweep straight up the StarPeru line where a very helpful chap takes our rucksacks and tags them. We receive a receipt acknowledging the small rip already present on Sarah's rucksack. Peru's professionalism is welcome and charming after the service in other countries. With our rucksacks coming in just over 20kg each we feel a little relieved in advance of our journey home.

It's a surprisingly pleasant and unobtrusive airport, easy to navigate and rather well set out. We hang around the food court for half an hour to kill time, but dont want to tackle the coffee, prefering a sleep on the plane. Security is excellent, no bother for Sarah and her insulin, no queue, no grief. There are some pretty comfy seats at the gate, and half an hour later we're on the 06.50am bound for Cusco.

The choice was a 22hr bus journey with Cruz Del Sur, doubling back on ourselves, costing US$60 at minimum, and probably more, or a stupid US$93 each for a one hour flight.

Our little plane, not completely full but only holding 120 or so folk at full capacity, was very comfortable, and as with all small planes, took off without a hitch, swooped through the clouds, and ten minutes later we played over a few brown mountains. Another ten minutes and we were crossing beautiful snow-topped peaks. Barely fifteen minute after that we saw the lush green of the Sacred Valley, and our plane circled round and dived onto the tarmac of Cusco Airport.

The runway runs up the middle of the valley, in the middle of the city, and due to the thinner air (Cusco sits about 3400m up, on the eastern edge of the Andes) needs a longer stretch to allow planes to stop properly. Still, absolutely no problems with out early morning flight, and StarPeru come highly recommended from me.

Of course the most visited city in Peru has the smallest, warehouse-style terminal for its airport, and facilities are meagre, although you have the pick of the tour companies operating there if you're in a rush to sort something out. Not too pushy, which was a pleasant surprise. We are offered, and decline, a PNS$35 'official' taxi, and barter it down to PNS$20. Still, we read later on Wikitravel we should have walked out to the main road and gotten one for PNS$10, tops. Live and learn, live and learn.

On the recommendation of Sonya from the US we have reservations at Pan-tastico!, a combination bakery and hostel. Any suggestion of a half-way decent breakfast is always going to win us over, no matter how bad we feel. We pull up outside and receive the by-now customary Peruvian hospitality. Other countries have, on and off, been less flexible for early-morning arrivals. Pan-tastico! had our beds ready for 10am and invited us to breakfast.Freshly made breads and jams accompany our Nambarrie tea as the other guests struggle from their beds. Sarah, better but not better, curls up in a ball and passes out, utterly exhausted. I eat as much bread as I believe I can get away with, and we retire to our room. At some point later, after emailing, checking the news, downloading some new games for the tablet, and a page and a half of Portrait Of A Lady, I pass out for a couple of hours too.

5pm, Saturday evening, and Cusco is cold. The difference in weather is startling; the Sacred Valley area is known for its diverse climates, but its still a shock to go from blazing heat in the midday sun to needing a woolen jumper a few hours later.There is speculation there might be thunderstorms tonight too.We've been here nine hours and seen nothing of Cusco. I head out on a walk to the nearest supermarket, half a mile away but easy to find, in search of soup for Sarah and maybe something tasty for me.

Without a sore head I was feeling like we had side-stepped 'soroche', the notorious altitude sickness, especially when we had had an easy time of it in Arequipa. That confidence left me unprepared for how thin the air is in Cusco. A brisk five minute walk later had my heart racing like I'd gone full whack on an exercise bike for an hour. Short, shallow breaths helped, and I sat for a few minutes to recover, but its a serious sort of impediment here. All the knowing articles about the area are at pains to point out Machu Picchu is actually at a lower altitude than Cusco, so acclimatisation is a bit unneccesary, but actually its the city itself you need to be ready for. Where Arequipa was a pretty flat cityscape, Cusco very much climbs the hills it is built upon, and you scarcely have a flat stretch of road at all.

Still, with a bit of wit I make it to the supermarket (featuring an entire aisle of bottled water, all the info one needs about the tap water here), pick up some powdered chicken soup for Sarah, and make it back through the darkening Cusco streets in one piece. Plenty of folk around, well lit from streetlamps, not sinister at all.

Our combined travel resources (Wikitravel, Lonely Planet, various blogs all about backpacking on the cheap, TripAdvisor) all suggested the vegan restaurant across from the hostel, Green Point, is worth a look, and my dinner comes from there; excellent Quinoa soup and above average vegetarian lasagne. Sarah manages to get through a bowl of cream of chicken soup and makes a start at another. The worst of the bug is past, I think, but she's understandably cautious.

We banter with a couple of girls staying in the hostel, and share our knowledge about Peru for their knowledge on Bolivia, but soon all of us are exhausted and bedtime is not late.

After the horrible snoring in Lima we were conscious of not being those people ourselves, and twice Sarah wakes me in the middle of the night to tell me to roll onto my side, my nasty sinuses are disturbing the two girls sharing our room. My sore shoulder does nothing to help the situation. Still, no one rises the next day with a knife in their chest, so I'm guessing an element of tolerance was exercised.

Breakfast is once again excellent, and I drown myself in pan-au-chocolat and tea. We share more stories with our peers and nominate ourselves for the Paraguayan Tourist Promotion Board. One girl, an Austrian, demonstrates starkly the differences that can exist between travellers. Talking of Lima, "Well, our taxi passed through Miraflores, so we had already seen the coast, then we walked around the historic centre and the Chinese part, then by 2.30pm we said Well what is there to do now? and we left Lima the next day". I couldn't think of how to argue with that, nor could I bring myself to point out that two weeks in that glorious capital hadn't been nearly enough for us, so I kept quite. It is quite difficult to work out why exactly some people are travelling the globe when they have such a shallow interaction with it on arrival. Somewhat reassuringly, she became the first person we had met who said they did not like Bogota.

Taking it slowly, very slowly, we ventured out to the streets around Plaza San Blas, beside our hostel. Those expecting high stone walls held together by mud and straw, streets so narrow a car can barely pass a pedestrian, and some of the most spectacular city views in Latin America will not be disappointed. Within minutes I knew Cusco would fall into the same camp as Rio De Janeiro, a city that is utterly spectacular in its own right, before any other aspect is considered. We eased up and down quiet Easter Sunday streets before finding the crowds at the Plaza De Armas, where once again the alleged pushiness was a second-best to the sellers in souks across the Arab world. A polite "No, gracias" kept everything friendly.

We spent an hour or two on our feet but hunger was our enemy today, Sarah's more than mine, but she was loathe to eat outside the hostel. Not only that, but where I had felt the grip on my chest the previous night, it was all new for Sarah, and between hunger and a lack of oxygen she was a little anxious. More soup in hand, we returned to the hostel and rested. I ventured out for something to eat, and returned almost an hour later with 'nachos' (not nachos, maybe bad wontons, but not nachos) and guacamole, and lomo saltado, which was as described and tasty for it. Sarah took a little rice, and it didn't kill her, so perhaps things are looking up. Still, that was a couple of hours ago. It's now 6pm, Easter Sunday, the sun has definitely fallen from the sky, and soon it will be time for a cup of tea and a creme egg.

Postscript : One of the most surprising (good and bad) things about South America has been how resolutely familiar things can be. Rarely do you have to eat something you have genuine trouble identifying, at least once its in front of you. For some reason Latin Americans love to have different words for the same thing. For example, chicken. A chicken is a galleta, as far as I can tell anyway. Chicken meat is pollo. Unless its a chicken stock, when its caldo de gallina. Or when its  chicken fillet, when its filet de pechuga. This has caused problems (who would have thought one word in English would need so many variants in Spanish? Yet whe you go to Argentina and try and work out what all the different steak cuts are, you will understand it isn't just about chickens).

One of the worst aspects though, one thing that really stops you believing you've left Western culture behind and moved on to a better place, is music. In Brazil, you have Brazilian pop, which is a little like Jamaican dancefloor I suppose, although purists will get me about that. In Argentina too you have this fairly African pop music. But intermingled with all this is a weird selection of Western pop. Not modern pop, but very old popular music. Sitting in the little restaurant waiting 'ten minutes' for my lomo saltado, the radio played 'Summer Loving', 'La Isla Bonita', 'I've Had The Time Of My Life', and Cher's 'Believe' before one single Spanish-language song came on. Sarah is convinced she hears Alanis Morisette being played every single day, somewhere on our journeys. Bizarrely, the original lead singer from Toto is coming to Cusco to give a concert; I have heard 'Africa' and 'Hold The Line' a lot in the last five months.

Mercifully, no Rihanna, no Katy Perry, no Lady Gaga, although Calvin Harris pops up quite a lot. And, Armageddon approaching, One Direction are absolutely massive down here. Not that you ever hear their music anywhere, but I've seen more 1D merchandise here than in Castle Court at Christmas.

Inescapable Peruano Cuisine : Lima : Thurs 17th Apr

Don't ever need to phone the UK Passport Customer Service Line. It goes like this: 'Hello, this is a very bad line', 'Yes it is, I'm on Skype calling from Peru', 'So what is the problem?', 'Well, we sent our passport applications in to you, they arrived on 3rd April but there's no update on the website', 'OK, give me a second... yes, we have no record of receiving those applications','Oh right. What now?','We'll I'll email the Peterborough office, they'll get back to you next Wednesday or Thursday after the bank holiday. Do you have details of the package?', 'Yes, but I need to phone home and get them', 'No problem, I'll email, you phone back if you get the details', 'Goodbye'.

Phone home, get details of package, get name of signature off Royal Mail website, phone UK Passport Office again.

'Hello?', explain again what happened, explain that I am calling back with more information to assist Peterborough office in finding our (rather urgent) passport applications. 'Ah,... well... you see I'm not going to email them...because... did the other girl say she was going to email them?', 'Yes, and she said call back with any extra information', 'yes... well... you see if I email them... that means there are two emails in the system...? So... you know... its better if you just keep that information... for when they get back to you....?'.

I bit my tongue and got off the phone.

So now we are anxious. At least we are safe in the knowledge that, any failing at this point, is on HM Passport Office's side, not ours. In the big breakfasting room of 1900 Hostel, as we endeavour to eat as much of our surplus food as we can before Saturday's flight to Cusco, we fret a little. Then we stop fretting and notice that Lima is a bit quiet today. Very quiet, in fact. Is the day before Good Friday a holiday here?

Well, not quite. Its an event, surely, called Jueves Santos, or Saints' Thursday. Lots of folk take the day off work, churches throw their doors open to the world, and museums seem to be free which, given our cultural wont, suits us nicely.

I shall be said to leave Lima. I had previously thought that the city centre might have been too chaotic for us after the glorious coastline of Miraflores, but actually its been wonderful being within walking distance of so many sites, and there have been enough pubs and eateries to distract us (not to mention yet another wonky pool table to while away the hours).

The big ubiquious horse statue in Plaza San Martin. To the left you would be able to see the fading grandeur of the Hotel Gran Bolivar, home to 'The Best Pisco Sour in Peru' apparently.

Panoramic shot of the Plaza De Armas

Sarah is very fond of taking photos of people, something I simply do not do. So here, for posterity, is a girl selling pomegranate on the street from a shopping trolley.

And here we have a small streetfront bakery selling, amongst other treats, so breads shaped like guinea pigs. MMmmmm.

Craziness on the streets. We did reflect though upon how well organised the chaos was. Plenty of police and securocrats everywhere sending away dubious sellers, lots of sellers selling lots of nice produce (and some pruck), and a few roadside toilets too. Not one single person was drinking on the street! In fact, almost all restaurants have signs up pointing out that anyone who has been drinking will be refused service. They dont take boozing lightly here. Anyway, this is where all life in Peru was, crammed into churches and buying delicious local delicacies.

Outside every church are little straw palms for sale.

Yes, that is a roasted pig head from which a nice lady is making tasty sandwiches.

PRUCK.

One of the more unusual street treats are these little sellers offering up peeled quails' eggs. You get it in a little plastic pouch with some seasoning and a cocktail sausage. Haven't tried one yet, but they are mighty popular.

We spend a little time berating the sorry state of affairs in Norn Iron, where street food has been virtually (actually?) outlawed. I have a fond childhood memory of the guys outside the front door of Castle Court selling roasted chestnuts at Christmas, not to mention the guy who used to sell hot dogs and burgers in front of the Tesco on Royal Avenue. Is it health and safety gone mad? Or have our embattled shop owners, with their rates bills, made a deal with the council to keep traders off the streets? Belfast feels so utterly tame nowadays, especially when you consider its raucous history.

We pull ourselves into a little cafe for lunch, another three courses for PNS$16.50 including a drink. My chicken soup / trucha a la parrilla (grilled trout, another local speciality) / creamed rice plus glass of chicha morada was good, but Sarah was unconvinced by her Papas A La Huancaina / Lomo Saltado / Ice Cream plus glass of sugar-free lemonade (literally lemon juice and water, a sharp combination I assure you!). In a sign of Lima's cosmopolitan nature, a family came in and pretended to peruse the menu whilst one of them went for a wee; when she returned they ran away! Cheeky devils!

This is the Peruvian Congress. Beside it is the Museum of the Inquisition, where we learn how to torture people to find out if they are heretics or witches. We learn that, according to the Catholic church in the 1500s / 1600s / 1700s etc, it was pretty much accepted that Jews were heretics or witches. I was glad we didn't pay into the museum, it was not as good as its Trip Advisor rating suggested.

This girl is preparing anticucho, the famous grilled cow-heart skewers that offended Sarah so much. I had a different sort of snack in mind, however...

...no, not llama!

Yes! Apparently this place does the best churros in the world! Three different fillings! Imagine a cigar-shaped donut, warm, with super-sweet chocolate in the middle and rolled in sugar, and you're nearly there! I am cultivating my Type 3 diabetus!

Busy busy Plaza De Armas.

Mentalness down the shopping streets. We couldn't handle the carnage and dropped into Starbucks for an coffee which, I'm fairly certain, cost me even more than the equivalent coffee back in Belfast. Do away with any notions that Peru is a second rate, second world country. They have everything here, and lots of it is good.

We dodge down a sidestreet about 5pm, trying to find a bookshop selling some second-hand books in English, to save me from the ramblings of Henry James, but we discovered a curious aspect of Peruvian culture; the 'old magazines' shop. About a dozen bookshops all on the same road, a little like Bargain Books from the front, but inside there are endless stacks of back copies of magazines, all topics, home interiors to culinary critiques, Vogue and Cosmo to some rather more 'gentlemen' orientated pamphlets. And, for those interested, an awful lot of comic books.

Sadly though, no second-hand English novels. We call into a few places but without luck, and end up back in the hostel, playing pool against an Aussie guy from Perth who reminded me in many ways of Lovejoy. Sarah's tummy is acting up again a bit. I fall asleep on the sofa. We go to bed hungry, having forgotten to eat dinner, fading to the snoring of the fat bloke in the bed opposite.

Art Overload, Maybe Beer Overload : Lima : Wed 16th Apr

So many things I forget to put in here.

Like the radio station that all the taxi drivers that plays the Beatles for a solid hour every day. Sometimes they play George's solo stuff, but mainly its just the Beatles.

Like how freaked out Sarah was when she realised she had eaten anticucho, marinaded and grilled cow hearts on skewers, when we were in Norky's.

Like the little red Rocoto chillis they put on the ceviche that take your face off, they're so fresh and spicy.

Like the fact that Peruanos do not go in for draught beer. Its very upsetting for me.

Imagine then that moment when we discover the Rincon Cerveceria, a short walk from our hostel, is rated as one of the best pubs in the city. We need to find out whether Lima can redeem itself when it comes to pints.

Firstly, though, our dorm room. The first time I have shared a room with four other people who snore. Who would have thought there could be such variety in the noises? Honking and sniffing and gagging and strange machine-like noises all coming from the human mouth. Add to this the incessant honking of car horns from the outside, the guys who clump around and slam doors and talk at full volume at 6am. It is a tribute to how patient I have become that I'm not in prison right now.

We get through this and our petty breakfast of two baps and one stick of butter, but enjoy our first cup of good protestant tea in nearly six months. No chance of Nambarrie making us ill.

Off we go to MALI, the Museum of Art in Lima. Beautiful palatial building, sadly only with one exhibition at the time, archaeological findings from a ceremonial burial site north of Lima in the Ancash province. Its interesting and worth PNS$6 entrance fee. Lots of little carved wooden figures, pots, textiles and ear-pieces. From there we walk to the Museo Arte Italiano, a fascinating collection of paintings and sculptures donated to Peru by the Italians. For another PNS$6 you get five rooms, all killer no filler, and a little paper guide that was obviously written when the museum had a different layout. Still, the mosaics on the outside, the wrought iron gates, the thoughtful and well-positioned collection make this an essential site for tourists to Lima.

On the grounds of MALI

Inside MALI's lobby

The mosaics on the front of the Museo De Arte Italiano

Hunger attacks Sarah and I, and we find ourselves in the Rincon Cerveceria post-haste. There we treat ourselves to decent draught beer from Pilsen, I have a fine ceviche whilst Sarah wolfs down arroz con pollo. I notice the Spanish Cup Final is starting soon, and the room begins to fill up. Then the bar gets very full. Then its a full house. If you have ever wondered why Real Madrid are the biggest team in the world, its because everyone in Peru loves them. Its strange to be in a room with no Barcelona fans. Its a good game and I win a pisco sour from Sarah (as yet unclaimed) as she bet me Barca would clean up today. I wish I had bet on Di Maria as first goal scorer too, like I predicted before the game. Damn.

This is glory of ceviche. Those little red demons on the top make it 'picante'.

Draught beer. Thank God.

At 4pm we leave, full of food and feeling fine, and discover the wonders of the Casa De La Literatura Peruana, or rather would have done if either of us were fluent in Spanish. Sadly not the case. I can pick out a few sections here and there, but the beautiful flow of the Spanish tongue is lost on me still, and we eventually beat a retreat to the little cafe across the road. All tiled floors, wood, unchanged for a hundred years, it prompts us to discuss the little cafe we're going to run when we return to Norn Iron. I can't tell you too much about it in case you steal our ideas. But it's going to be great, I promise.

The charming glass roof of the Casa de la Literatura Peruana

Sadly the little cafe, at the side of the Palacio Del Gobierno, is a might expensive for us, and we begin our journey back to the hostel. As if by magical accident we lift our heads outside Bar Munich, a spot which has eluded us on every walk up and down this street. Its easy to see why; the sign is small and the bar is actually down a flight of stairs in a cellar. Makes sense, I suppose. Inside we are treated to an old man hammering out great tunes on an upright piano, whilst a healthy mix of office peeps and students intermingle whilst drinking draught beer from clay steins. It doesn't take much to imagine this place as a smokey den of revolution. We converse of more ideas of what to do when we return home. Now I am going to write some children's books. I just need an illustrator, or to learn how to draw.

Its well past 9pm when we depart, in need of dinner. The pizza restaurant beside the hostel yields a fairly good meaty pizza that sorts us out and we play a few games of pool before retiring. Looks like all remaining cultural activities will need to be completed on Thursday before the country shuts down on Friday and we are left with nothing but Mass to entertain us (in a manner of speaking).