Pisco Sour

When you travel you get some ups and downs. As is often said, its better than being it work, but there´s still a few times when you really wish you were at home, with a base, a routine, a bedroom, TV, traffic lights, trains, toilets that flush, police that help, a face that fits.....

Standing in a pharmacy in the Peruvian town of Pisco having just had my taxi hijacked and my large rucksack stolen was a low point for me. I considered my remaining possesions; fortunately they included my photos, my passport and my bank card. Unfortunately, what I was wearing - a T-shirt, some trainers, some shorts and some socks - were my only clothes. I chose a bad day to go commando.

A few days before, in Huacachina, a strangely relaxed traveller town in the desert south of Lima, I had met a crazy group of scandanavians with a beat-up hire care and hours worth of stories, Our hotel had a garden full of parrots, some that said ´hello´, some that said ´hola´and one that said both.

The town was surrounded by tall sand dunes and tour agencies took groups on a crazy ride up and down the peaks in dune buggies. We stopped a few times to try sandboarding, which was hard. After a few-high speed crashes I took the recommended option of going down head-first on my chest, which was easier, but at times even more painful.

There was a bar where you could ask for chocolate and they gave you a bag full of hash. For free.The floor was covered in cushions and beanbags, with playstations, which you could use for as long as you wanted. It was just like being at university.

Profits came (thick and fast) courtesy of the steeply priced range of sweet and savoury snacks on offer. Oddly enough, when sitting on a bean-bag playing your 12th match of Pro-Evo with a slightly cloudy head and pants full of sand at three in the afternoon on a hot day, a chocolate pizza with bananas on for 18 Soles is exactly what you want. The girl next to me swore she hadn´t moved for three days.

So anyway, the relaxed atmosphere and compelling company meant that I ended up leaving for Pisco a little later than I had planned, and arrived after dark. I jumped in a taxi to get to a hostal, and it was promptly surrounded by two smaller tuk-tuk style taxis, full of guys shouting at my driver. After a while, it was clear they weren´t asking directions.

We went down a quiet side street and the other cars pulled in front. I tried to get out, but couldnt, and a big guy with scruffy hair and tight jeans reached in the passenger door and grabbed my rucksack. We had a little jostle, before another man appeared and shouted very loudly (so that saliva went on my face). I was worried about my valuables, so I let him have it (the bag), wrenched my door open and legged in to the nearest lit street.

I looked back to see the bigger guy scampering up the road with my (possibly unecessarily) heavy bag. Obviously unfamiliar with the Berghaus Back-Eeze quad-strap system (with seventeen and a half points of adjustment), he carried it perched half on his head and half on his shoulder. Little did he know that the joke was (sort of) on him: there was nothing good inside, and I hadn´t done my washing since the Inca Trail.

So it was off to the police station for the second time in my trip - this time it was a huge empty room, save a couple of desks in one corner and a typewriter.

The guy was sympathetic:

´ahh, that again. Why do travellers even come here?´
´err...to visit the islands. It´s on the way to Lima, too´
´Well you shouldn´t´

´Did he have a gun?´
´I didn´t see one´
´lucky´


´England, eh. This wouldn´t happen over there, would it? You have cameras in the street and stuff´
´I know... Thanks´

He wrote down the details of what happened and then produced a scruffy looking A3 scrapbook with photos of local criminals sellotaped to the pages. They were all scruffily dressed with black hair, brown skin and jeans. And there were hundreds - I had no chance. Without wanting to admit that I can only tell one Peruvian from another by what there are wearing, I told him that, apart from one apparently in his eighties, it could have been any of them.

At this point another man walked in with some new information, and showed me a page with only four faces on. Amongst these I was pretty sure, but not certain.

´how sure´
´it´s hard. About 90 percent I reckon´
´Ok, tomorrow I want you to come back here. There will be a judge here, and I want you to be 100 percent certain´
´but I´m not´
´you cant be indecisive in front of a judge´
´but what if i´m not sure...If say it was him, what will happen´

He answered that by moving his fingers accross his throat and smiling warmly.

Having been told that there was no chance of getting the bag back and slightly unnerved by the power of retribution that in my hands, I decided not to grass the guy up. I did have to go back for a full report for the insurance: having told the police that there was little of value in the bag, it was pretty embarrassing explaining that the rucksack cost about 200 dolars the value of the clothes if bought new in England would be over 1000 pounds.

The two policemen in the room couldn´t really comprehend that much money, so I changed the subject to Nolberto Solano. Talking about football works time and time again when dealing with angry men on this continent.

At this point, another man, who appeared not be a policeman, came over and explained that creating such a report was not in the officer´s job description and that, since he wasn´t getting paid, I should at least offer a tip.

Embarrassed by my obvious relative wealth, I went to hand over the coins in my wallet:
´no, not like that, his boss can see. Put it between the pages of the book on the table´

Serving the community. South American style.


I was a little shaken up by the whole thing, and, with nothing to wear, decided to scrap my plans to go trekking in northern Peru. Instead, I went briefly to Lima - and the coast for the first time since Buenos Aires. I managed a run along the world´s smelliest beach (I could sense the dissapointment amongst the groups of youths under the pier when it became clear that, wearing nothing but some hastily purchased Peruvian swimming trunks, I was not worth mugging), and ate mountains of Ceviche (a local breakfast of raw fish with lime and chili).

From Lima we headed north, narrowly missing an all expenses paid piss up on Nobby Solano in north peru, before crossing the border and reaching the grimy Ecuadorian city of Guayaquil. Ecuador certainly feels different, though it´s hard to say exactly how. It seems similarly shady at times: beside every cashpoint is a guard with a metre-long sawn-off shotgun.

Despite being near the sea, Guayaquil doesn´t have a coastline (Southampton with malaria). It is surrounded by a large swampy marsh, though, and the urban planners have decided to capitalise. This morning, I ran along the newly developed swamp-front, including macdonalds, a designer mall and views of the mud below.

I watched a man for a good half hour as he practised football skills the park:

´do you play football - for a team´

´no, I just do tricks. I training for the local championships´
´do you do it in a team or something´
´no. On my own. I went to Chile, but they wouldn´t let me in because I couldn´t prove that I could make a living out of it. So I came back, but I´m going to work more´
´I´m from Southampton. Do you know Augustin Delga...´
´Sorry, It´s nice to talk, but I have to go. I´ve got to work´

He returned to the grass with the ball balanced on his head.

Top 5 bargains to be found this week in a flea market somewhere in southern Peru.

1. Nike Pro tight-fitting performance sweat top. Slightly stretched around the bicep area. Previously subjected to dangerously high speeds. Sweaty.
2. Terracotta combat trousers. Liable to instill a desire to dance like nobody is watching. Ripped from riding a bike when drunk.
3. White boxer shorts replete with skid marks - curse of too much street food.
4. Inflatable travel pillow and travel washing line combo.
5. A large amount of unused condoms.