Former Irvine Co. spokesman Franz Wisner is travelling around the world with his brother Kurt. This is his fourth installment.
A bit stiff from Galapagos boat beds and $10 hotels, Kurt and I decided to splurge in Lima. We checked into a five-star hotel in an upscale area before heading into the Andes. FYI, don’t be fooled by hotel ratings in Latin America. Best to treat them like Tailhook generals,remove at least one star.
The tall brunette with exaggerated makeup and heels smiled as she passed us in the hotel lobby. A hooker, the bellboy explained nonchalantly. Perfect segue for the upcoming presidential election.
You can’t escape it. Advertisements are painted on remote village walls, plastered on most billboards, painted on rocks in the middle of rivers, stuck on cars and curbs. I was very impressed with the enthusiasm. Then I discovered that failure to vote results in a stiff fine. Civic duty or lose some booty.
Peruvian candidates are measured along a right-to-left spectrum, right in line with common corruption standards or left the country.
Counterfeiting is an election issue. Exhibit A: the fake 50-soles bill in my wallet. That’s the equivalent of $15 U.S. I mean, that’s the equivalent of zero U.S. dollars. Change anyone?
Fortunately, the mystical Andes mountains, where we spent most of our time, are largely impervious to politics. High accolades, literally and figuratively, to the Colca Canyon for its soaring condors; hang glider-dream cliffs; tiered farms carved into mountainsides, tranquil hot springs; and quiet villages centered around white stucco churches with wood beams and cracked bells. Locals call Colca the Grand Canyon of Peru. While more of a steep valley ringed with snow-capped peaks, Colca is equally inspiring with none of the RVs.
Colca was a warm-up for Machu Picchu, the lost-and-found Incan city and Peru’s main draw. We opted for the four-day hike into the park over the half-day train ride with refreshments. Note to self: Maybe the four-hour horse ride in the cold rain the day before the hike wasn’t the best preparation.
Actually, we were doing pretty well trekking along the stone-path Incan highway through landscapes that change from jungle overhangs to rivers swelled like egos to Scottish pastures to tree-less Alps. At least we thought we were doing well until we saw our group’s 50-year-old porter, clothed in thrift-store dress pants and dime-store plastic sandals, lugging a 50-pound propane tank and portable stove, breeze past us like we were a scooter on the Autobahn.
The real stair masters, Peru porters make life on the Inca trail immensely more enjoyable, scurrying ahead of hikers to scout campgrounds, pitch tents and prepare coca leaf teas, the local and legal prescription to ease the impacts of altitude. They’re the Latin sherpas, running up and down mountains for a handful of dollars a day. I’m rewriting my will.
The trek, even with occasional rain showers and numb toes, is almost as enjoyable as Machu Picchu itself. Hikers sample a steady series of small ruins and dramatic views leading up to the main event.
I said almost. Because it’s tough to beat Machu Picchu on a clear day, which we were fortunate enough to have after three days of gray skies and damp sleeping bags.
Kurt and I snuck into the park at 4:30 a.m., perched ourselves on an overhang, then sat back to enjoy the show. We had the entire place to ourselves at first light. The dulled, stone temples and houses, draped over the mountain ridge like a saddle, warmed to life as the sun peaked its head.
Two hours later it was all downhill as the buses unloaded group after group of tourists in spotless hiking boots and freshly pressed safari shirts. We prowled around for the rest of the day, poaching information from the high-priced tour guides and explaining to others that we normally didn’t look or smell this bad.
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Don’t go to Brazil. Everything you hear is true. I just know you wouldn’t enjoy it here.
Start where everything starts in Brazil, at the beach. Sure, the women are the prettiest in the world. But the frugality of the swimsuits really highlights the clothing material shortage they must be experiencing, poor souls. Plus, the endless parade of stunningly gorgeous women makes your mind skip like a scratched Gilberto album: Tall and tan and young and lovely … and tall and tan and young and lovely … and tall and
Yo, college boys. Forget pre-med or business. Switch that major to Portuguese.
Hand signals are another obstacle in Brazil. Many here end conversations with a thumbs-up. We’re trapped in a month-long “Happy Days” rerun. “Um, it’s Franz, not Fonz.”
And you really need to know when to say “no.”
“No, I should pass on that sixth helping of delicious Brazilian barbecue (churrasco). I can see that there are 20 different kinds of beef, pork, chicken, lamb and seafood. But the choices are killing me.”
“No, I appreciate the long samba lessons, and I do think you’re gorgeous. But I wouldn’t want to turn any heads at the next wedding reception back in the States.”
And, “No, no, no. I know greater Rio has more open space than a Hollywood brainstorm. I know the ring of forests and hills rises like a crown in the middle of this beautiful city. It’s just I’m a bit scarred from the countless suggestions to ‘take a hike.'”
You’ve heard about the crime. Well, we’ve been mugged several times,with kindness. The main culprit was Guta, a friend-of-a-friend/Rio dynamo who scooped us off the rough streets of Ipanema and settled us into her apartment in the upscale suburb of Barra. She’s arranged flights, organized parties, translated and even booked haircuts. Obrigado. Others have led us on treks and walks, hosted us at parties, toured us around Rio and given crash courses in culture and hand signals.
About one in 10 Brazilians speak English, but 10 in 10 love to lend a hand and send you on your way with a thumbs-up. “Thumbs-up right back at you.”
Yes Iguasu Falls falls dramatically at the Brazil/Argentina/Paraguay border. (Quick tip: Skip the smallest one unless looking for a stamp in the passport.) Yes, Brazil recently completed a Disney-clean visitor center that offers side treks, bring-a-raincoat boat rides under the falls and Technicolor sunsets. Yes, the Argentina side affords the opportunity to walk on top of the falls and feel like Jeremy Irons in “The Mission.”
But the whole show can be terribly distracting. Scratch it off the list.
We spent Easter weekend on the island of Santa Catarina. I know, it’s confusing with California’s Santa Catalina. The Brazilian version is more of a series of old-fashioned communities huddled around 42 amazing beaches and nestled between large tracts of wilderness. A central lagoon provides the perfect mirror for sunsets best viewed from waterside restaurants that serve heaping plates of garoupa and other tasty local fish for a handful of reals.
But Catarina is a getaway for Brazilians, not Americans. Sorry to say, I didn’t hear any conversations about crashes in Nasdaq, Napster or NASCAR. I told you you wouldn’t like it.
Before heading North to Bahia, we’ve been reeled back to Rio, hopelessly trying to find the perfect caipirinha (the high-octane Brazilian equivalent to the margarita), a flawless Bossanova tune, from the effortless strummings of a cafe guitar, and the ideal stroll through one of the city’s numerous tree-lined neighborhoods.
Soccer game on Sunday at the Maraca & #324;a, the world’s largest stadium. Anyone know the Portuguese word for “hooligan?” We also want to hit the Carmen Miranda Museum before leaving town.
Enough. Enough is enough. In fact I’m not going to write anything nice about Brazil at all. Just don’t go.
I’m more than happy to have it all to myself
