Along the Gringo Trail

 Along the Gringo Trail. A retrospective on South America

Due to a family wedding in May, and the arrival of my daughter and partner from Berlin my blogging has stalled somewhat and I was a bit lost for what to write next. The volcanic eruptions in Guatemala this week reminded me of the time I spent in that wonderful country on 2 trips there in 1980, when heading south and then back north many months later. For the first time in my life I climbed an “extinct” volcano and for a while wondered if it was the same volcano wreaking death and destruction. The tragic TV footage made much look all too familiar and set me off on this blog of South America and my travels there. 

Living the life of an expatriate was at the forefront of my mind in my late 20s and early 30s. My first foray abroad, other than my regimented year in Vietnam as a soldier, came in my second year after graduating and not long after The Dismissal of the Whitlam government on Remembrance Day in November 1975, an event that shocked me and hastened my desire to flee a conservative Australia. This flight found me living in England and Italy for about 18 months, surviving, just, on low wages in dispiriting casual jobs. I had tried secondary teaching but it had fallen short of the alternative or free education I so admired at uni: it wasn’t anything like the Summerhill of A. S. Neil at all but more like working as a professional sheepdog: all bark with little educational bite.

In Italy I even considered teaching ESL and went for an interview at a private school in Lugano, Switzerland, just across the lake from where a cousin lived and ran a small minimart. But I didn’t press the matter as I didn’t have the visa to make it stick and I would only have got breadcrumbs for any work they gave me. No visa and you get screwed in more ways than one. So I returned to Australia where I considered I could make money easier and then to resume my life footloose and fancy-free elsewhere in the world. To reinforce this wanderlust I did a short course in ESL teaching, got a job with the premier adult ESL organisation, NSW AMES, and most importantly saved for my next venture across the wide waters of the Pacific. I was all set to venture from Los Angeles south Along the Gringo Trail, this being the title of a popular guide at the time for budget travels in South America. I figured I had enough money to get by for at least 9 months if I lived cheaply, my much-preferred option, and perhaps with a bit of ESL teaching I could extend that indefinitely. In retrospect, I could have paid a substantial deposit for a house in inner-city Sydney, but I was a gypsy back then and homeownership was far from my febrile mind.

I was attracted to South America for a number of reasons. I had picked up reasonable Spanish from my time in the UK and Europe, and from my work with Chilean refugees in London. I had also taught many South Americans in Sydney in my job with NSW AMES. I felt a strong affinity with these people and their culture, in particular the music of the Andes, and the emerging music and the peňas of Chile, or as it became known, La Nueva Canciŏn Chilena, a blend of protest and folk music at its best, for a reason: dictatorships and misery ruled south of the Rio Grande, or as the title of this blog states, Along the Gringo Trail. I had been deported from Spain following participation in a democracy protest (See my Blog: Catalonia revisited: Spain at the crossroads) with my passport stamped Rechazado, or Rejected. That this might stand out was risky and problematic. As this blog outlines, I had some tricky moments but not with my passport: the size of some of the visa stamps that barely fitted on a passport page irritated me but I got by and through customs at all borders. Size seemed to matter when a country’s dignity was rendered in a visa stamp.

We’re all familiar via books and movies with the derogative epithet, gringos, used south of the border for Yankees and others. Young hip travellers at the time proudly took on the label to describe themselves as different from everyday TOURists with their short package holidays strictly along the beaten track. We were backpackers, living cheaply for extended periods of time, enjoying a way of life, who ordered in the local lingo and engaged closely with what the local cultures had to offer. Yes, there was an element of cultural snobbery in all this for sure. We thought we were a cut and class above other travellers as we stuck our noses sometimes insensitively into local matters. The cheaper you lived and the lighter you travelled the great the kudos earned. Now, this wasn’t quite “going native” but it was as close as we could get. Of course, you could haggle so hard and live so cheaply you could lose any kindness you could offer in a harsh world where there are many hands out begging for help. Living cheaply has its cruel side: sometimes you have to be generous no matter the personal cost.

So, in February 1980 I got my visa to the US and bought an economy return ticket to LA. I was soon packed and ready to go, come what may. We had a brief stopover in NZ and another in Honolulu, and then it was nonstop to LA. Those were the days when traveller's cheques were the go but I had enough US dollars to see me through to my first night in a cheap hotel close to the LA Central Library. Many more cheap and flea-bitten hotels were to follow in the months ahead, but that’s the way I wanted to slum it in my itch for travel on a shoestring.

What struck me about LA was the Spanish influence especially in take away food places, street signs and in the language heard on the streets I wandered lost. And then there was the ever-present smog and hassling on the street with vendors on footpaths everywhere. For all the pomp and splendour many were doing it tough.

I’d met a woman in Perth prior to my departure and decided to visit her in Orange County, or Richard Nixon’s country off the Pacific coast. I caught a Greyhound and ended up in a gated community, a first for me as I still don’t think we have any/many such places in Australia, even today. Road spikes awaited any unwelcome cars driving in without permission or remote control entry devices, it was all strictly private. After a call, I made it in on foot and was well received by this woman’s brother and housemates, but it was all smoking dope and flicking the TV remote for which there seemed to be countless channels. One’s eyes glazed over whether in the drug haze or video flicker. I later took this woman out for dinner, and remember the sizes of meals were enormous. I then said goodbye and waited nearby for my Greyhound for LA which never came, so I rang and was invited back for more channel-surfing and dope. I can’t remember this woman’s name, we never met again, but she was English and a nurse. Neither of us took a drag, as it were, but we had to inhale or breathe somehow in all that smoky air. The guys in the house said that they worked in the clothing industry but they certainly weren’t working in the 2 days I spent there. They weren’t sleeping much either.

Back in LA, I familiarised myself with the railway station and coach terminal, set among the palm trees and under an ever blue sky. I bought a coach ticket to Mexico, first stop Mexico City. I wanted to stick to the ground as much as possible Along the Gringo Trail.

Mexico

It was a long drive to Mexico City with only a few stops for toilet and food breaks in small ramshackle places where poverty and struggle glare back at you. Toilet paper had to be bought from hawkers and they gave only a fraction of what was needed. Mindful of this we haggled and paid for more and more. But one’s got to make a living, right and many find it tougher than others? So far no Montezuma’s Revenge with lightning visits to the nearest toilet, but as all travellers know you don’t drink the water, must note where public toilets are, pack extra toilet paper, and keep small change for access to such services if you can find them. Diarrhea medication is also worth packing. Be prepared to pay for a drink or snack before using a premise’s toilets. This was the same when travelling in Italy and I’m sure is standard elsewhere. You can’t just duck into a friendly pub as you can back home. In the end, for better or worse, your bowels rule.

Today many places in Mexico are highly dangerous and on par with war zones. Drug cartels dominate and kill mercilessly all who get in their way, so you enter at your own risk and folly. It is the rule of “if you can’t buy a cop you kill him or her”. Back in the 1980s, the drug cartels of Medillín and Pablo Escobar were running rampant and the scourge of the region. On a lesser scale, drugs existed wherever one went, but mainly the softer variety.

Mexico City is a very high altitude city – remember the 1968 Olympics and the fuss about the athletes’ preparation - but I didn’t seem to notice any difference in my daily exertions. The teeming traffic and crowded metro stations clearly showed what today remains one of the largest cities in the world. I erred when I joined the wrong queue in the metro not knowing that women have their own queues to stop them from being molested. So, I was ignorant and innocent to local ways but that changed when I met a local guy who was keen to show me around at a reasonable cost that I was happy to pay. A fixer of sorts. Tourists in foreign cities are frequently accosted by shady tour guides out to scalp them, but they aren’t all bad and disreputable. Although it’s the usual caveat emptor some share and trust are also necessary. People don’t often have many options in how to scrape a living.

You haven’t visited Mexico City without seeing the murals and art of Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo. I happened to stay at a hotel famous where another famous couple had stayed: D.H. Lawrence and his wife Frieda. Now I’m not saying I stayed in the same room but I’d like to think I took the same stairways.

In all my travels south of the border I showed an interest in the politics of the countries I visited knowing full well that dictatorships were common and democracy was often at a low ebb. One of my heroes of that time was Ivan Illich a critic of modern western institutions, eg Deschooling Society, who was brought to Australia in the 1970s by the Australian Union of Students. He had a profound effect on my thinking and had a base in Cuernavaca called The Intercultural Documentation Centre, about 90 minutes drive from Mexico City. I found the place, walked around its well-maintained hedges, but didn’t have the confidence to knock and ask for Illich. It looked quiet from the outside and he probably wasn’t in, or so I told myself when I caught a bus back to Mexico City.

One day I heard the sounds of a demonstration in the streets and Saracen armoured vehicles racing around and discharging tear gas into the crowds.  Despite people fleeing I ran forward to get a better view, and perhaps a photo or two. Tear gas in confined areas must be hard enough but even in the open streets it was not easy on the eyes, but in travel experience is all, even if painful. I had an amazing camera for those times that was about the size of a cigarette packet and a top brand, Canon, that got a lot of attention. Someone I spoke to at the demo said that the police would have broken it over my head If they’d caught me using it, so my first lucky escape with more to follow.

My time in Mexico City was just before Easter, or as the locals call it “semana santa” or holy week, a time when everyone goes home and gets together with their families. It was better to avoid the rush and head south to Guatemala. Prior to this exodus, I went briefly to Oaxaka, one of the southern-most states of Mexico. It was colourful and full of interest with Aztec and Mayan temples to visit and behold, but one of my clearest memories was walking down a narrow street and passing the open door of a small restaurant. The chilies aroma that wafted from the kitchen was so powerful that despite my minimal exposure I was instantly coughing my heart out at 40 paces. I couldn’t imagine my head over a plate of their fiery cuisine.

When you travel you invariably meet and link up with others. I met a German woman in her late 50s or early 60s, a gray nomad, and a backpacking granny, who I travelled with for a while. She was an enthusiastic artist, and had a son who was a professor of art somewhere in Germany. Like us she was a gringo on the road, but unlike us with our cameras always ready to snap away, she had her sketchbook at hand ready to capture what aroused her interest. I remember her – let’s call her Gretchen - getting caught by an official for taking a rubbing off some precious object in a temple or museum and Gretchen having to play dumb to wriggle out of her awkward situation. She might have been getting on in years but that didn’t stop her scaling heights to get up close and personal to any art that attracted her. You can’t keep a good granny down! You encounter interesting gems when you travel and Gretchen was such a gem.

Before long a number of us were travelling together out of Mexico into Guatemala, seeking sanctuary from the skyrocketing crowds of holy week.  There we were, Canadians, Americans, Italians, and our German granny, all on the move along the Gringo Trail.

Guatemala

There were two parts to my stay in Guatemala: my learning Spanish period, and then my retreat to the Lakes of Atitlan around the Easter period.

I wanted to improve my Spanish and enrolled in an intensive course that included my own teacher, plus board and accommodation with a local family in the town of Huehuetenango. It was all unbelievably cheap but the teaching, food, and accommodation were of a good standard. My family included a teacher at the Spanish school, her husband, a truck driver, children, and the inevitable Indian maid. It seems in Latin America and elsewhere that even “poor” families have maids, always indigenous women even lower down the economic order. The food was simple but ok and there was time to chat over dinner.

I asked about the local political situation and any political repression. Worse, death squads. They confirmed they knew people who had disappeared, or as known in Latin America los desaparecidos. Again “keep a clean nose and your head down”. Nevertheless, when I saw a demonstration I went up for a closer look. After all, if I ever got busted I could, in theory at least, wave my passport and get help, which is much more than any arrested locals could do. When I heard gunfire in the night I was left wondering if some brave soul had disappeared. Like most countries south of the border the military played leading roles in government. The irony at the time is that the Carter Administration in the US was increasingly strong on protecting human rights, which wasn’t always the case with US foreign policy.

My Spanish was improving. I sat opposite my teacher who guided the lessons as she saw fit, however as a language teacher myself I felt the need to play an active role and in the end took control. She seemed ok about it. It was a small local language college that competed against a large national chain. I revised their brochure to help them and ensured the English was both correct and the information appealing. I left on a good note but returned later to visit my family in Huehuetenango.

Guatemala is a poor but beautiful country as the TV images from the volcanic eruption can attest. Guatemalans also have character and charm. Lake Atitlan in the highlands of the Sierra Madre Mountains is very popular with Canadian Quebecois who flock there in droves and basically colonise the place in the warm seasons. Quebecois are not particularly fond of, or friendly to non-French speakers. Included in the group I’d been travelling with was a Canadian guy who looked like John Denver. His English was North American but he was from Quebec. After arriving in Atitlan he stopped speaking to us, just like that. He was on the lake’s foreshores and safely back in Quebec. He didn’t need to speak English any longer.

Market places throughout Central and South America are great and those in Guatemala also measure up. They are busy and attractive with a wide range of colourful handicrafts at almost unbelievably low prices. Top of the list are large, sturdy hammocks of which I bought several as gifts for family and friends back in Australia. It cost a lot to pack and post them but I wanted to get the gifts part of my travels out of the way. When in Atitlan I usually slept soundly in my beloved hammock. I’m not sure if I could repeat that today.

The Atitlan area had many French restaurants and I remember taking a boat to dine at Michel’s. Boats were the mode of transport from shore to shore. The population soared around the Easter holidays and I’m sure it dropped just as fast afterwards with many visitors flooding back to Quebec.

I toured on a bit and met an American who invited me to join him climb an inactive volcano nearby. The ascent took over 4 hours and the view from the top was, to repeat a cliché, breathtaking. This guy from the US was into wood sculpture and found a large piece of deadwood that he wanted to go down with and ship back home. Now you might think going down is easier than climbing up but think again. Many areas of this mountain had been cleared and were rendered into soft fields ready for planting coffee trees. The land was steep and bare, and my companion with his log in arms started jogging down the mountain. I followed him but soon realised that there was nothing to grab hold on to stop or slow me down. Finally, I flew through the air and landed safely albeit in an undignified manner headfirst into soft soil. Had there been a tree stump in my landing place I could well have been buried in Guatemala to this day. But accidents do happen and I had travel insurance, right?

Another incident in Guatemala was when I was hit by a bus that swept me off my feet. Although I was walking on a footpath the sides of this wide turning bus extended onto the pavement and collected and flipped me onto my side. Some people rushed up as I lay prone on the pavement but I thanked them, brushed myself off, and went on my merry way. I might have had a bruise or two but nothing was broken. I didn’t even need first aid.

I had an interesting encounter in Guatemala with an Australian who had been a cameraman in the Vietnam War. One day on return to our accommodation he told me that a guerrilla group had stopped them, exchanged information and courtesies, and then let them proceed. I remember wishing I had been with him that day. I’m sure the group would have been called Comandante Che Guerava something or other.

My next road trip was high on the danger list especially if you ventured beyond any safe boundaries: El Salvador, or death squad central in Central America.

El Salvador

Visiting El Salvador even for only an overnight stay was foolhardy and well out of the comfort zone of most travellers. Only locals boarded the bus with 2 exceptions: me and a rough and ready Swedish woman who was, a sailor. The road trip was uneventful and we arrived an hour or two before dark allowing a quick stroll around the CBD of San Salvador and a meal. In a local paper, I bought I read an article about 3 or 4 American nuns who were missing. Later I saw a movie made about their capture and execution by death squads.

If you want to live you get back into your accommodation before curfew. Once again the only occupants were locals or journalists. One US guy introduced himself as a correspondent for Soldier of Fortune magazine. I told him I had been in the Vietnam War and he saw me as an ally of sorts, which was hardly the case. A bit later a Swedish correspondent told me that some death squads, or mercenaries, took out an eye as a calling signature. What a sad country in a bloody civil war that defied all levels of decency. A few years previously Bishop Oscar Romero had been assassinated at the altar where he’d had much to say about poverty and cruelty in the land controlled by a small number of ruling families. Much has been written about this murder. Roberto d'Aubuisson, a former soldier, and extreme right-wing politician, and death squad leader was named in a 1980 Truth Commission finding as having ordered this assassination. d'Aubuisson died of throat cancer at the age of 48. In 2013 Oscar Romero was canonised by the Catholic Church. A contrast in morality.

Nicaragua

The overthrow of the Nicaraguan dictator Anastasio Somoza shortly before my arrival had made world headlines, especially as film of the assassination of a US TV correspondent was aired around the world. The US under Carter had cut their ties to the Somoza family that had ruled Nicaragua since 1936, and although Anastasio Somoza fled the triumphant Sandinistas he was later assassinated in Paraguay where he had sought sanctuary from their dictator, Alfredo Stroessner.

This change of rule was heady stuff although the challenges of overcoming the hardships of the past were evident and included massive debt and rubble. On the ground the 1972 earthquakes had levelled the CBD area, but in sharp contrast was a recently constructed, multi-storey, pyramid shaped hotel that rose from the ruins. It was where Somoza had made his last stand before he fled with the national treasury. After the earthquake Somoza sold the blood that was sent as aid to the stricken population. He was once quoted as saying he didn’t want educated people but oxen. Now the country was rid of hope great hope was placed in the young Sandinista coalition that had replaced him.

I was sympathetic to the Sandinistas who included intellectuals and a broad front of people. I stayed in accommodation that included a veteran Mexican foreign correspondent I had crossed paths with in El Salvador, and some freelance photographers working for agencies.

What greatly interested me about Nicaragua were the changes taking place in women’s rights, health care and above all in education. I referred in the Mexico part of this blog to the ideas of Ivan Illich regarding schooling. Another giant of that era was Paolo Freire, a Brazilian educator who championed a critical literacy in his book Pedagogy of the Oppressed that was influential in his time, particularly in Nicaragua. It was a part of Liberation Theology growing in importance at the time. Ernesto Cardenal, a poet and former priest was Minister for Education in the new government and eager to put Freire’s ideas into practice, and I was eager to sit in on a literary circle that fast tracked mastering literacy.  I did get to speak to a number of people about this exciting development but joining a group never quite happened before I left Nicaragua for the next steps along the gringo trail. 

Before leaving I must mentioned that getting much more for one’s US dollars was the case in Nicaragua and all travellers took advantage of the favourable exchange rate, myself included. I’m not sure if this self interest had a negative impact on the local population, suffice it is to say that getting the best exchange rate on the black market was standard wherever one went. Exchange traders approached you on the street, here, there and everywhere. This cash economy remains the case today working alongside credit cards and the convenience of ATMs.

Because of the dangers of a counter-revolution, both entry and exit from Nicaragua involved strong border checks for arms and contraband. The world would later learn of Colonel Oliver North and the Contras seeking to undermine this government.

PS Sadly many families today currently fleeing persecution and attempting to enter the US are from countries such as Guatemala and Honduras. Such persecution and danger have long been the case in this region. US President Trump’s so-called zero-tolerance policies have separated young children from their families and shocked the world at large. Time magazine’s cover for June 2018 depicts a crying girl from Honduras at the feet of Trump with the caption “Welcome to America” set against a red background. Very SAD indeed, but that’s Donald Trump the grand ogre of our times who is devoid of all humanity.

Costa Rica

In stark contrast, Costa Rica was clean, safe, modern, and affluent, at least on the surface. It almost seemed European and today is very green and environmentally conscious running at almost 10% renewable energy. I walked the streets for about two days and it lacked the heat and humidity of previous countries. No doubt its beaches and attractive lush countryside were drawcards for holiday makers but I wasn’t holidaying. Other than that I have no strong memories: it was slightly more expensive but comfortable and the capital, also Costa Rica, relatively undistinguished from other modern cities had the full range of services. I saw nothing disturbing at all and loved the tropical fruit I feasted on. If I’d wanted to settle down with a teaching job Costa Rica may well have been my first choice although it was bland in many ways.

Panama

Panama as far as I was concerned was Panama City and the Panama Canal. The countryside and the airport were almost an hour's drive away, was very much like that of Costa Rica although the weather was hot and very humid, the humidity resulted in heavy afternoon showers that provided the water needed to pump and float ships on locks as they make their way through the canal.

Panama City was duty-free shopping for travellers and its main thoroughfare was very modern with many high-class shops open at all hours. However getting off the main drag and you find yourself in run down and grim housing estates where only the foolish dare to venture, like yours truly.

One day a young German traveller and I took such a turn and walked towards what we were told was the Canal. We got some angry stares and an old man shouted at us in Caribbean English, warning us to get out of the area as we were close to being assaulted. We were very relieved when we got to the safety of the main street again.

Another incident is of note. One day a young English couple, recognisable as they were staying in the same accommodation, rushed up to me in the street announcing that they’d been robbed. The guy seemed quite proud of the fact that he’d put up a fight of sorts. They asked if I could accompany them to the police station to make a report, for insurance purposes. I agreed and before long we were waiting for assistance in a nearby police station. Before long we were taken out and asked to get into a police car. Along with us and the English couple was a young guy who after a while was given a clip around the ears and pushed out of the car. We then drove to this very grim, seedy, crowded area where the driver stopped, wound down the window, got out his gun and pointed it out at many onlookers, and then asked: Can you see the assailants? The young English girl was very pretty and the cops thought they would play Starsky and Hutch, or machismo men, to impress her. Perhaps this couple has recounted this story as many times as I have. It was a joke with a grim side.

Today, 25 June 2018, in the World Cup England defeated Panama 6 – 1 yet it was cause for jubilation in Panama City as they had scored their first and only goal as debutantes in this global sporting event. Fans went wild and saw it as a victory in defeat. To the north and to the south are superpowers in this world game with Panama being not much more in its entirety than an electoral district of Sydney or Melbourne. Still, it takes an hour to get to the airport and maybe 3 times that to get to the border.

From Panama City, we flew to Guayaquil, Ecuador.

Ecuador

Guayaquil is the largest city in Ecuador with the largest airport and sea port. I wasn’t particularly impressed, especially as the day there was gray and humid. Back then there were many flights to the Galapagos Islands, which are part of the Republic of Ecuador.

The capital, Quito, the next leg of my Ecuadorian adventure, was both charming and beautiful, and it nestled high in the crisp air of the Andes. It had character and was one of the places that I could happily spend a year or two living and working in. Like other South American cities, it had a large statue of Christ that hovered over and dominated the surroundings. Many of Quito’s inhabitants were Indian and its outdoor markets were varied and appealing. Although much smaller, if a comparison was to be made, it compared favourably as a long-term stay to Rio De Janeiro but without its famous beaches and shanty towns.

I love Andean music and Ecuador is the home of the rondador, a cane pan flute with many pipes strapped together. It plays two tones simultaneously and I couldn’t resist buying a few such flutes, despite the weight and carrying inconvenience. I set out with only a silver transverse flute and when I reflect now on the many other instruments I bought in my travels in South America I am amazed at how I got around with them all. I was like a travelling music store and many of these instruments still line the walls of my lounge room where they have pride of place. To adopt a phrase: my walls are alive to the sounds of music. My pilgrimage was music-driven, especially the haunting sounds of the altiplano, or high Andean planes.

Next stop Peru.

Peru

It was a fascinating trip by train to get to Lima, Peru. The British, as elsewhere in the world, largely built the railway system in many parts of South America. At one stage the train from Lima had to zig-zag to climb to the heights of the Andes, a significant engineering feat, and the altitude at its maximum height required railway officials to walk through compartments with large leather bags – about the size of punching bags – and blow oxygen into the noses of passengers. The air was rare indeed and altitude sickness, soroche, (from Quechua) required some adjustment with any walking uphill and down dale being slow and measured. I personally wasn’t badly affected by soroche perhaps as I was a keen swimmer and skin diver with perhaps a better than average lung capacity. Maybe I was a bit macho when I waved away the oxygen – the follies of youth.

Huancayo is the capital of Junín Region, in the central highlands of Peru. Looking at Youtube videos of this city now shows a vast development from the city I entered by train in 1980, indeed a veritable explosion in size. It was/is a university town on alert as the Shining Path, or Sendero Luminoso, a Maoist guerrilla group that operated in the area had begun what it called “the armed struggle on May 17, 1980, which wasn’t long before I arrived in the area. I witnessed nonviolent rallies amidst a strong police presence but kept a distance. I was told that an Australian academic was involved with this group founded by a former professor of philosophy, Abimael Guzmán. Wanted on charges of terrorism and treason, Guzmán was finally captured in 1992 and sentenced to life imprisonment, but not before many died in full-on battles in Peru. Shining Path was in ways similar to the Khmer Rouge who wrought havoc in Cambodia, or Kampuchea as it was renamed, from 1975 or shortly after at the end of the Vietnam War to what became known as the “killing fields”.

Not that we ever talked politics but I was to work and teach with a woman, Isabel XXXX, who said that she was related to the Peruvian President Belaúnde Terry, a politician who returned to power in 1980 after many years of military control. I had no reason to question her relationship as she was quite a matter of fact about it.

Peru today defeated Australia 2 – 0, in the World Cup first stage series, and I’m happy for them. It’s only a game after all but for South Americans the biggest game of all. Much more serious today is the separation of children from their families in the US under Donald Trump's zero-tolerance policy. Now there’s something to shout about. There’s so much to dislike about Donald Trump, a very nasty hombre who smears the good name of Latinos at every opportunity.

Ayacucho

It was a dream of mine to traverse the Andes and travel from Huancayo to Ayacucho was part of this dream. The flutes of the Andes kept me spellbound and I was aware of the work of two Swiss practitioners of this music: Raymond Thevenot and Gilbert Favre. I managed to buy a flute tutorial by the former and perhaps some cassette tapes. Today it’s all on YouTube. See the following for samples. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SfmiM_cW3nM
http://landofwinds.blogspot.com/2013/03/raymond-thevenot-and-gilbert-favre.html

It was approaching the Winter Solstice and Cuzco was the place to be and my next stop, both for its proximity to Machu Picchu and for the annual Festival del Sol, an event that brought tens of thousands to the area. Festivals do that but also attract undesirables such as pickpockets.

Cuzco

Or Cusco was the capital of the Inca Empire until the Spanish conquest. Today tourism is its mainstay and June is the peak of arrivals and festivities. It positively buzzes and its streets are crammed with visitors, both backpackers, and the suited variety. I met a Dutch TV journalist who seemed to enjoy the life of Riley in his daily work. He was young, was acquainted with South America, and like all Dutch spoke several languages with ease. And of course, he looked the part for television.

I mentioned previously the wonder of markets in South America and my purchase of hammocks in Guatemala. Now I was in the Andes it was time to buy a poncho, some quenas, or flutes, and a traditional woven headwear to stave off the cold. To look and go native as it were. These dress items had to be made from Alpaca or llama, both noted for their fine wool. When out in the countryside it was a sight to see these gracious animals nibbling grass and food.

Buying at markets during festivals may not have been the best time for bargains but the selections of goods available was wide and of superior class.

On the winter solstice, I attended the Festival del Sol along with many thousands of others, and the performances and spectacles went for hours and hours. According to the Incas, the sun they worshipped was at its furthest away and was set to turn back towards them.