Weblog respite (try saying thát 10 times very fast ;-)

I find myself needing more time to memorize names of neurotransmitters and brain-parts, so I’m taking a break from blogging.

Now, now… Yes, I know you are all heartbroken, but I promise, you’ll be fine. There is a world outside of my blog! Go out and discover it! Don’t just sit there and cry… Well, okay, I know it’s a shock, so maybe you should cry a little bit. Let it all out. There, there, you’ll be fine. I have to go now, okay? But I’ll be with you in spirit, always, and I promise you, you’ll be fine, you’ll get over it, I, I, oh, look at me I’m choking up too. I have to go, okay? It’s just something I have to do, for all of us, it’s for the best. It’s, it’s… Oh, I can’t talk about it anymore, it’s too much, I’m just going to go now, okay? Okay.

The “people’s names at parties”-thing

So, I was at a party and the host introduced me to three people: a cute (but slightly too slick) guy, his very stylish girlfriend and a friendly looking boy with brown curls. We did the “Hi, I’m … (insert own name)”-thing and shook hands, and talked about how nice the party was until the host wandered away to greet fresh newcomers and I wandered away to get myself a drink.

Having received my white wine from the voluntary bartender of the evening I wandered back to cute-yet-slick guy, stylish girlfriend and curly brown haired guy, because they had seemed nice and there were no other acquaintances that needed greeting, and we did the “So how do you know … (insert name of host)?”-thing  and chatted about my sister, my connection to the host being that my sister is his girlfriend. At some point in the conversation the curly brown haired boy did the “I’m sorry I don’t remember your name”-thing and I did the “That’s okay I have to admit, goodness how embarrassing, that I don’t remember yours either”-thing.

This (for me, at least) is all part of the standard  ”people’s names at parties” -thing. When you are introduced to randoms at a reasonably large party you don’t really pay attention to their names because there is a very high chance that you will never speak to them again, ever. Then, when you end up in a situation where it seems that you are going to actually get to know the other person to a certain extent, you do the “How embarrassing I forgot your name”-thing and this time, you do pay attention. Standard, simple, no problem.

Unfortunately for me, at this point the “people’s names at parties” -thing went horribly wrong. Cute-yet-slick guy had remembered my name.

“But you don’t remember mine, huh?” he said

“Oh dear oh Gosh no I don’t right now I’m sorry let me think, it was, uhm…” I said

“John.”

“Yes! That was it, of course! Sorry John, won’t forget again, hahahaha.”

“It’s okay, you don’t have to pretend you recognise the name. You just completely forgot. That’s okay, it happens.”

“Nononono, I’ll admit it was gone for a little while there, but I definitely remember now. John, yes, that was it.”

“It’s funny the way people do that, the way politeness works, isn’t it?”

“Yes, I know. But I’m not just being polite, nonono, promise. There was a definite little memory spark at the name John. My brain went “John, that was it.” Really, it did, it did.”

At this point, I noticed something was off about the people around me. Stylish girlfriend was rolling her eyes, John was looking rather pleased with himself and, most tellingly, curly brown haired boy was trying not to laugh. In my head, a penny started dropping…

“Your name isn’t really John, is it?”

“Nope. It’s Adrian.”

Doing what I wanted to do just then would have meant my kind host and future brother-in-law would have had to clean up not only the standard broken glasses, gift-wrapping and red-wine stains but also a dead body in fetal position so I decided to do him a favour and keep standing up and smiling, all be it with a very red face.

The thing is, I really thought I recognized the name John. I truly believed it. My psychology book tells me this is called cognitive-dissonance; two attitudes were competing in my brain: 1-I couldn’t remember Adrian’s name 2-forgetting someone’s name is impolite and anti-social and I view myself as neither of those things. Thus, when Adrian told me his name was John, my brain convinced me that it recognized that name, thereby proving that I wasn’t impolite and anti-social at all. It’s the same mental process that causes smokers to rationalize the fact that they smoke (I know it’s bad for me, but I have a lot of stress in my life right now. Or rather: I know it’s bad for me, so I must have a lot of stress in my life right now) and nazi guards to work at concentration camps (I’m causing these people horrible suffering even though I consider myself a kind person, but they deserve it. Or rather: I’m causing these people horrible suffering even though I consider myself a kind person, so they must deserve it).

See, I told you I’d be spewing first-year psychology at you before long, didn’t I?

Anyway, Adrian and his stylish girlfriend and curly brown haired boy were very nice about it and didn’t run after me with pitch forks and burning stakes to punish me for being impolite and anti-social at all, although I didn’t dare ask for the names of the stylish girlfriend and curly brown haired boy after that, because, you never know, they might have had little fold-up pitchforks hidden under their clothes or something.

I even did a passingly good job of getting back at Adrian by pointedly calling him John for the rest of the evening, in an attempt at “if your joke had really affected me I would be pretending it never happened yet here I am revisiting it again and again thereby showing you that it didn’t affect me at all” reverse-psychology. Or would that be reverse-reverse-psychology? I’m not sure. Whatever it was, Adrian started looked a little embarrassed by the 6th time I called him John which I will count as points for me.

I think I will ask my sister’s boyfriend for Adrian’s email address, so I can send him a link to this blog post, I think he’ll appreciate it. I think I will start the email with “Hey, John! Aren’t you glad we don’t live in World War II?!”

How to get people to not sit next to you on trains

So I’m studying in Utrecht. Finding a place to live in Utrecht that does not cost the Earth or feature a queue of 5 smelly students standing in line to use the shower which is located in the kitchen every morning (yes that shower example comes from real life. Not, thankfully, my own.) is just about completely impossible and for this reason I am still living in Tilburg, which is actually a rather nice town in the south of The Netherlands; not that the fact that it is rather nice contributes positively to my life at all as I only ever see it for ten minutes every day on my walk from and to the station.

When I am not studying, admiring the road between my house and the station or babysitting my nephews in return for food, I’m sitting in a train.

There are not many things in life that I truly excel at, but I would like to think that when it comes to sitting in trains, I am a master. I have now taken the time to write down the three steps of this fine art, so that you, dear reader, may also achieve this supreme level of deftness.

Step 1, before boarding.

Even before the train arrives, position yourself away from the lingerers, loiterers and general scum who feel they have the right to get on the same train as you. The best location will probably be a minute’s walk or so away from the stairs leading up to the platform. Be very wary of inside seating areas, it will look as if you are waiting in a sparsely populated area, but when the train comes suddenly some doors that you had not noticed behind you will open and out will pour the scum ready to claim the train by the dozens. Worse: people who wait in inside waiting areas tend to be fat grannies, stupid foreigners with luggage and mothers with prams who each feel they have the right to take up more space. Avoid!

You should also avoid areas where there are altogether too few people waiting except for some very pleasant-looking middle-aged gentlemen in suits: this is where the first class wagons will stop. You want to be as far away from first class as possible as all the other suckers who were waiting for second class when a first class wagon stopped in front of their noses will have to defer to the second class wagons before and after the first class one which means those will be fuller. Avoid.

Step 2, boarding.

Don’t try to get into the train first. You are going to win this with wits, not brute force. Wait patiently at the back of the row and tut-tut at the scum (usually little old ladies) who are standing so close to the doors that the people disembarking can’t file out properly. Repress urge to say “For F#@*’s sake, the train is not going to leave without you.” loudly. You need to remain anonymous, just an insignificant face in the crowd, for your plan to work.

When your group files in, follow them, and pay attention to where most of them are going: this is where you will not go. Enter your wagon of choice. If there is an empty two seater, grab it, but there probably won’t be. Look around at the eyes of your potential seat neighbours – do not sit next to the people with a vacant, tired yet accepting look in their eye, these are the people who are in for the long haul. You want the active, vibrant people – these are the ones who will get off at the next town to do a bit of shopping leaving you with a blissfully empty two-seater.

Step 3, after boarding.

Once you have seated yourself in the emptiest wagon, in an empty two-seater (which you might have had to wait one station for), it is your goal to keep the seat next to you empty. To go about achieving this, you must look no-one in the eye (it will be taken as an invitation to sit down) but more importantly, all importantly, the whole crux to the art of getting people to not sit next to you, is the positioning of your bag. Your bag will have to be next to you, on the seat, making it a requirement for anybody wanting to sit next to you to ask if you could take it away, by uttering the hated words “May I sit here?” Most people will not bother if there are other seats without bags on them that can also be sat on. Now here comes the bit that makes the trick an artform…. the moment that the empty-seats-without-bags density in the wagon falls below 20%, carefully, surreptitiously, remove your bag. It is a repeatedly proven fact that people entering a wagon where there is less than 20% empty-seats-without-bags density will look at the seat-with-bag and the person, ie owner of the bag, next to it with loathing (“How dare you take up a seat with your bag in a wagon with less than 20% density!”) and will make a point of sitting not on one of the bagless seats but right next to you, evil bag owner person. It is imperative that you counter this outcome with the pre-emptive strike of removing the bag, making sure nobody sees you doing so or they will view it as an invitation, and look as friendly and inviting as possible while still not making eye-contact. The scum will designate you as a non-threat and will sit somewhere where they have to pointedly ask someone to remove their bag.

After all this you will probably have almost arrived at your destination. But in those last 5 minutes of blissful not-having-someone-sit-next-to-you-ness, you should take a moment to thank me.

Eurolines

If you are wandering through a biggish town or city at silly o’clock and on some dark, unmaintained, half-abandoned parking place in the seedier areas around the central station you see members from one or more minority groups waiting with suitcases and a resigned look on their faces, you have probably found your local Eurolines bus stop.

Eurolines is the only option for the penniless traveller to get around Europe if that penniless traveller, for whichever reason, chooses not to fly, and has not been able to find somebody going the same way by car on the wonderful www.mitfahrgelegenheit.de or one of its non-German variations.

Last weekend I was a penniless traveler needing to get to Geneva for an expat wedding (he’s British, she’s Canadian, the guests were from just about everywhere imaginable; I think one or two of them may even have been Swiss!) and I found myself, not the first time in my life, on a Eurolines’ bus.

The buses are always late, uncomfortable and invariably have one or more things wrong with them inside: the chairs won’t recline, the air conditioning will be broken, the loo will smell like vomit and have a door that refuses to close or some other thing will be broken or malfunctioning so that your trip will be just that much more uncomfortable.

They also take ages and ages to get from A to B, because they go via the town centres of C, D and E and stop there, engines running, for stupid amounts of time waiting for latecomers or (more likely) for the driver to go to the loo. There are no movies to help you bide the time, all you have is you, your non-reclining seat, any foodstuffs you have been able to procure at one of the haphazardly timed stops at a tank-station and the guessing-game: what languages does the driver speak? (The solution probably being Polish and Italian, or any other combination of languages that have nothing to do with the departure or arrival point of the bus.)

Eurolines is also, to add to the joy, and through no fault of Eurolines itself, like a children’s breakfast cereal box to customs: almost every box comes with a prize. Finding either drugs or criminals or illegal immigrants is almost guaranteed and you, the passenger, will therefore find yourself being herded out of the bus at 4 a.m. so that your luggage can be searched and your passport checked by French speaking men in uniforms with dogs. On my way to Geneva last Thursday there was a man behind me who had got on the bus in Paris who didn’t have a passport with him, and only spoke enough English to explain that the reason for not having a passport with him was because “he was going to Italy.” No other reason. Just that. This seemed to baffle even the Swiss border police who probably have their fair share of fake passports and out-of-date visas but had to have a little meeting about what to do with the, apparently Indian, guy who seemed to believe that one did not need a passport as long as one was travelling to Italy. In the end he got carted off the bus and taken to the police, together with two other passengers who had commited I-don’t-know-what offences.

Sounds spectacular but it’s pretty normal, I’ve never been on a stopped Eurolines bus where people haven’t been carted off the bus. If you are anything like me, Eurolines is the closest you are ever going to get to the crominal underbelly of rich, boring old Europe…

Ah, Eurolines. The travel might not be as comfortable or timely or quick as a flight, but it is (usually) cheaper, a lot better for the environment and it gets you straight to the (admittedly seedy part of the) town centre, and when you get there, you will always have a story to tell. Beat that, RyanAir.

On being back home

I’ve been back home in The Netherlands for a week now, and people ask me if it is strange to be back, if I will miss Peru.

It isn’t strange to be back home. If anything, it’s strange that it isn’t strange. Peru was different;  the air had a different texture to it; dusty, thick. The buildings were a different colour, rich greens and mustard yellows and light pinks and browny reds and sky-blues. But these things don’t strike me unless I concentrate. I’m back home again, I grew up in this country and the way things are here are inherently normal to me. Like an elastic band, removed from whatever was causing it to stretch out, will twang immediately back to its default state, so I am back to my norm. (Wow, how about that? Literary-like.)

The only thing that did strike me as different, walking the streets of my new home town of Tilburg alone for the first time after my return, was the quiet. Over here, the cars are newer and the streets better paved, which means there is less noise, but probably more importantly: the cars don’t honk. Oh the joy. In Peru, every car honks at every little thing, all the time. When they approach a crossing, they don’t slow down, they honk. When they want to pass another car (on the right or on the left, who cares?) they honk. When they see pedestrians crossing the road a mile off, they honk. When they see a pretty girl on the street, they honk. When they are bored, they honk.

Also: when they are a taxi (i.e. 60% of all cars), they honk. Let me explain; if you are walking along, every empty taxi passing you will honk at you, you know, because the fact that you are walking along, minding your own business, thoroughly ignoring all the taxis around you of course means that you really need a taxi. If you ignore them, they’ll honk again, louder, because you must have not heard their first honk. If you react to their honk, even if it is just an involuntary look, they’ll stop because any reaction means you want a taxi. If you walk on, they’ll call out at you: Taxi! Taxi? Taxi! Taxi!  If you stop to tell them you don’t want a taxi, they’ll be pissed off. This insanifying, catch-22, hairpulling annoyance will happen every two minutes or so whenever you walk anywhere. You’re probably better off taking a taxi.

So will I miss Peru? I’ll miss the food. I’ll miss the unconditional friendliness of the people. I’ll miss the fact that everything was dirt-cheap. But God I won’t miss the honking. Or the taxis.

Tips for backpacking through Peru

This post is not for my regular readers, but for people who want to go backpacking in Peru and found my blog. Welcome! I lived in Peru for 6 months in 2009, 1 of those months was spent backpacking, and I thought I would share my experiences with you.

General:

- Peru has one of those cultures where the people are slightly too eager to help. This means they will always say yes (Yes, I can tell you how to get to the church. Yes, we can make that meal vegetarian for you. Yes, I can organise a taxi for you.) but that that yes need not have any bearing on reality at all. It usually turns out okay, but keep it in mind.

- If you are ever in trouble, use this eagerness to help to your benefit. Don’t be ashamed to ask for help, you will usually receive a meal and lots of sympathy. It is their pleasure.

Safety:

- There is crime in Peru, it is dangerous for travellers, but it’s not as bad as some people (especially the locals!) like to make out. You will hear horror stories and hysterical warnings, but relax, it isn’t really that bad. Just be wary, be careful, keep your eyes open, and mind the following:

1. -Try not to have your valuables with you, but don’t keep them in the hotel reception locker, either. Store them with friends, hide them in your hostel room, or even better, don’t bring them in the first place.
2. -If you must have valuables with you, keep them against your body. Buy one of those bum-bags that you keep under your clothes before you leave (you can’t get them in Peru). Don’t keep any valuables in your bag, especially not a backpack, as the bag might be slit open and the contents stolen without you noticing.
3. -NEVER take an unmarked taxi. The number of a marked taxi will be short, 6 or 8 digits long, with letters and numbers like this: XY1234 or 1234XY or XYZ123 or similar, usually written in big black letters on the outside and inside of the cab. At bus-stations etc, taxi drivers will be waiting for you to try to talk you into travelling with them. Ignore these men (just say “no, gracias” and keep walking), walk outside and choose a taxi that looks reasonably clean and safe and has a clear number written on the side, and an official looking sticker on the windshield. If the driver isn’t in it, he’ll come running when he sees you. When you get into any taxi, look at and try to remember the number. (You don’t have to write the numbers down, but look at them conspicuously. The taxi-driver will notice.) ALL the crime against tourists that I heard of during my travels happened in unmarked taxis.
4. - Don’t walk around alone in the poorer areas. Definitely don’t walk around in the poorer areas with a camera swinging from your neck.

Making friends:

- Don’t be afraid to chat to other backpackers, they are usually just as eager to make contact as you are.

- Choose hostels with a kitchen; this is where you will make contact with other travellers.

- Book a tour every now and again (trekking, for instance). There will be fun other people to chat to in the tour group.

Accommodation:

- In Peru, hostels are cheap and abundant, there is no need to book in advance, unless you will be arriving very late at night. If you are on a budget it is usually a good idea to try a hostel that isn’t in the guidebook as they will be cheaper. Just go to the Plaza de Armas (main square) ask some locals and walk around until you find one. A cheap hostel should cost around 15 soles for a single room, 20 for a double. (Slightly more in a tourist town like Cusco or Arequipa, certainly more in Lima.) They will usually ask 20 or even 30, so you will have to talk them down. Always ask to see the room before you make a commitment.

- In the Sierra (the mountains) in the winter (July and August) try to get a small room with hot water (gas, not electric). It gets fricking freezing at night, and a small room is more likely to warm up a little through your body heat and the candles that you can buy in most local shops. Don’t bother trying to find a cheap hostel with any kind of heating system. They don’t exist.

Cusco and Machu Pichu:

- Cusco has become very touristy in the past few years. That means things are expensive, there are a lot of tricksters and thieves about, the “real” Peru has been lost and, oh horror for all the shoestring backpackers, there are loud white families with fat kids and tourbus groups blocking your view everywhere you go. Skip it. Skip Machu Pichu, too. Same deal. Go somewhere else. Unless you want to get drunk and party with tourists (after months of Latin music and obligatory dancing with sticky Peruvian men this can be very attractive), in which case Cusco is an excellent destination.

Buses:

- Even though it is usually not apparent, the ticket prices for most bus companies are meant to be haggled over. Don’t be afraid to try.

- Peruvians rave about Cruz del Sur. It is certainly the safest bus company (lots of security measures), but in terms of comfort you can go a lot cheaper and be just as comfortable and safe enough via other companies. I loved a company called Cial, which has really new buses (I’m writing this in 2009).  I also like Dias. Friends of mine raved over Flores. In the north, Linea is famous for being secure.

- It’s best to travel at night, simply because all the journeys are so long. You will usually have 3 ticket options: Cama or VIP, which means you get VIP treatment and a bed. I’ve never done this, it’s very expensive and semi-cama is fine. Semi-Cama means you have a seat that goes back very far and a legrest. This is what most tourists buy. Then you have Economico or Directo which means you have the crappy seats that don’t really go back at all and you will be sitting very close to the people around you. However, if you want to save money, these tickets will still get you where you are going and it will still be better than the average Eurolines bus (Any European who has ever travelled on a budget will know what I’m talking about).

- If you buy a Semi-Cama ticket you should get a blanket but it has been known not to happen, and a cheap ticket means you won’t get a blanket, so always take one (or a sleeping bag) with you on the bus. If it is warm enough after all you can use it as a pillow, if it is too cold you will be extremely happy you have it.

- If you are likely to worry about that kind of thing, check around with the locals if there are any strikes planned before you leave. A favourite Peruvian way of striking is to block the roads so the buses can’t get through and you will get to wherever you were going a day later than you thought.

Eating out:

- In a non-tourist town or the outskirts of a touristy one, you will usually be able to eat the “menu” (a set meal of 3 or 4 courses that varies per day) for about the same amount of money it would take you to cook a simple meal yourself (between 3 and 5 soles). Be very wary of germs though, (especially if you haven’t been in Peru very long, as your body won’t have adapted yet). Restaurants will basically always wash everything in Peruvian tapwater, which can’t be trusted, so unless you are in an expensive western restaurant, never eat anything that hasn’t been cooked, like a salad.

- Strict vegetarians will have a hard time in Peru as it can be very difficult to communicate that you don’t want meat. Even once you know that “sin carne” only excludes beef, and start using the better and well-understood “soy vegetariana”, there will still be bits of chicken floating in your soup. They just don’t get it. Accept and move on is the best remedy. If you are in a new town, ask the locals about vegetarian restaurants which usually do exist but are hiding somewhere in the bigger towns, look in guidebooks for addresses, and if all else fails head to a “Chifa”. These are the Peruvian versions of Chinese restaurants which will usually have something vegetarian on the menu.

Volunteering in Trujillo, Peru

This post is not for my regular readers, it is meant for people who are thinking about volunteering in Trujillo, Peru, were googling around and found this blog. Welcome I volunteered in Trujillo for 5 months in 2009, and thought I would share my knowledge.

What is Trujillo like?

Trujillo is a big city that seems small when you are there. I did not find it beautiful or inspiring, but I did find it very interesting. There are not many foreigners about, which means you will get some attention on the street if you have pale skin, and it means you won’t meet other backpackers or volunteers unless you really look for them. This does, however, mean that you will be experiencing the “real” Peru. There are two western malls where you can escape from the “real” Peru, but also tons of markets where you can experience it in abundance.

Trujillo’s biggest selling point is the weather; all year round, it is never too hot and never too cold and it hardly ever rains. Also, Trujillo is one of the cheaper places in Peru so you can go out to dinner every day (I did!).

Trujillo’s main disadvantage is the traffic; it is smelly, loud and dangerous. People honk all the time. This makes wandering through Trujillo on foot not quite the pleasurable experience that it could have been. Also, it is in the desert and there isn’t much nature around.

If you are looking for a “cool” backpacking volunteering experience with lots of partying and meeting other volunteers, Trujillo is probably not for you. Go to Huanchaco, or if you have the whole of Peru to choose from, Arequipa or Cusco. If you want to be in the nitty, gritty “real” “poor” Peru with llamas and people in traditional dress who have never seen a white person before, so to speak, you should go to a more rural area than Trujillo, and more inland.  But if you like to be in a city atmosphere, if you want the amenities of the Western world available yet be forced to speak Spanish to get them, if you want people wondering why the hell you came here and not Cusco, if you want the ocean near and gorgeous weather at all times, go to Trujillo!

Volunteering in Trujillo:

What follows is a description of the voluntary organisations in Trujillo and Huanchaco that I know of:

The two organisations that I worked with personally:

FiorePeru

Teaching English via Fiore-Peru is a safe option, as you will be picked up from wherever you arrive, will be able to spend the nights at the school (nice house in safe area, internet, garden, kitchen, shared rooms, warm showers) and will be cooked for (all this also counts if you don’t want to volunteer but only want to take Spanish lessons). There is an in-house cook/housekeeper/receptionist who is lovely and will be a great help to your Spanish as she does not speak English. The work is teaching English to groups of adults, mainly in the evenings, and I believe they also want to start some English playgroups for small children. You won’t be very busy. You’ll have to pay a little money which won’t be much compared to other organisations (though you can also find cheaper options), email them for a quote. The downside of Fiore-Peru is that it is a little lonely as there are not many other volunteers, and Trujillo isn’t the kind of town where you meet other backpackers easily. The upside is that it is safe and organised.

Espaanglisch

Espaanglisch is slightly less organised and therefore more adventurous. You will have to make your own way to the school (although I’m sure someone will pick you up if you ask for it specifically). The house (roof terrace, single rooms, internet, kitchen, cold shower) is in a slightly less safe but more lively neighbourhood. You won’t be cooked for, so you’ll have to fend for yourself. You’ll be teaching English to either lively groups of teenagers in the mornings or you will be leading conversation classes for adults in the evenings. Whichever you end up doing, it will only be a few hours every day. You won’t have to pay for doing the work but if you decide to live at the school you will have to pay a little rent. For not much more money you could also choose to live in a hostel. There will usually be one or more volunteers around, although it is not a big group and you still might be lonely every now and then.

Other volunteering options that I have seen/ heard of:

SKIP

Skip does excellent work for children from the poorer areas of Trujillo. I have not had personal experience with this organisation but I believe they are well-organised, with a volunteer house where many volunteers live and where you will be working quite a bit in the nitty gritty areas of Peruvian society doing various jobs.

Otra Cosa

Otra Cosa is based in Huanchaco, the beautiful but touristy seaside village near Trujillo. If you are looking for a volunteer experience that is also a bit of a holiday, this might be your best option. I have heard from people who had a bad experience with Otra Cosa, where the organisation failed and the work they were expecting to do wasn’t actually available on arrival, but I have also heard very positive stories. They have several different types of work and a volunteer house where you can live and where you will meet people. Huanchaco in general is a great place to live and go out, you will meet tons of backpackers and surfers.

Fairmail

Helping (ex-)streetkids make a living by teaching them to take photos. If you are in any way into photography this is a great volunteering opportunity. I never personally met a volunteer from this organization, though, so I can’t tell you what it’s like…

Mundo de Niños

A home for streetkids in Huanchaco. I don’t know if they even have places for volunteers, you’d have to email them and ask, but the organisation deserves a mention on here just for the brilliant work that it does.

Meeting people in Trujillo:

You can just sit on the Plaza de Armas and wait for some (annoying) old guy to invite you to have dinner with his family (happens a lot), but if you don’t want to do that, Trujillo can be a bit lonely.

The best bar to meet fellow travellers and open minded Peruvians is called Bohemios (Independencia 989, 5 minutes from the Plaza de Armas). It is never really full, and the staff will be happy to meet you and to introduce you to people if you tell them you are new in town.

There are hardly any internet communities which you can use to meet people in Trujillo, unless you want to try a dating site, where I’m sure you would get tons of attention! For some odd reason though, Couchsurfing.org is very popular in Trujillo and has a group that has regular meetups.

If you start craving more company from non-Peruvians, head over to Huanchaco (the touristy surfer town near Trujillo) and go out drinking or dancing in Sunkella (reggae club) or Sabes (cafe bar). During the day, have some gorgeous lunch in restaurant Otra Cosa (not to be confused with the volunteer agency) or Chocolat, put on your best extroverted shoes and chat to some of the other people there (more difficult than chatting to people at night in a club, but worth it.)

Well, that was my knowledge (and a lot of my opinions) about Trujillo. If anybody has things to amend or to add; that’s what comments are for, people! Go for it!

Travelling

I’m sorry I didn’t update on Monday! I broke my promise! I feel really bad! But I didn’t have internet! And I was ill! And the dog ate my blog! I’m sorry! Really! Look, tears, look, they’re real, taste them, go on, salty tears of sorryness!

Okay, now that that’s out of the way….

If you’re wondering why I’m posting more irregularly than normal, it is because I am backpacking through Peru for my last month here and have left my laptop with a friend in Trujillo where it is sitting in a box and is probably not missing me half as much as I am missing it, the fickle bastard.

Backpacking, I hear you say. Wow. Cool. Adventurous. Wish I could be there…

Well, you know what? I wish you could be here, too. I will gladly come do your office job and live in your house or apartment where you probably have your own kitchen (I DREAM of having my own kitchen. Oh how I wish I had my own kitchen. If I could rent just a kitchen and put my bed in it, I would.) and… No, that’s it. I just want your kitchen.

I am not a very typical traveller because there is this one thing that discerns me from other travellers: I don’t actually like travelling.

First there’s the planning. I hate planning. I don’t even know how to do it. I sit there and hold the guidebook and get swamped by all the information and cannot imagine how anyone could ever decide that they want to go to that and that town and sleep in that and that hotel and then spend hours of their lives emailing or calling back and forth trying to figure out which is the best deal. The planning is half the fun, they say.

Well, they are deranged. When I imagine a trip, I just imagine how horrid the hotel is going to be compared to the hotels near it, how expensive it is going to be compared to the other ones around it, how difficult the transport system is going to be, how expensive it is going to be, how annoying the locals are going to be, how annoying the foreigners are going to be, and the terrible, terrible stress of getting there in the first place. So I stop imagining it and go do something else.

Luckily you don’t have to plan ahead all that much if the travelling you’re doing is backpacking, especially in a country like Peru, where the hostels and restaurants are cheap and plentiful and friendly fellow travellers who will give you tips and lend you their guidebooks abound. So I’ve been travelling completely haphazardly which has made me slightly happier about backpacking as it has taken away the dreaded planning stage but has also made me feel bad on occasion as there were a few things I would have liked to have done that I did not get round to, due to, what else could it be, bad planning.

So yeah, planning sucks. Then there’s the physical suffering of travelling; lugging around heavy bags, stressing out over bustimetables, sleeping in different beds every night and doing your back in, eating irregularly and all the physical discomforts that that brings, either too cold or too hot or too unpressurized and generally horrible showers wherever you go (Peru excels in horrible showers). Bah.

Don’t forget the financial suffering: even though Peru is really cheap, every Sole I could have saved by staying home and watching Grey’s Anatomy reruns makes my Dutch heart contract with a little pang of regret.

Oh I could go on. In the end, I don’t particularly like travelling and spend a reasonable amount of time travelling wondering why I’m travelling.

The answer, of course, is that I can’t stand staying in one place. Ho hum.

Shoeshine boys

I hate shoe-shopping, and consequently have the smallest collection of shoes compared to every single other woman I have ever met.

It goes thusly: one pair of hiking sandals for hot weather, one pair of running shoes for whichever aerobics, step or hip hop class I am currently forcing myself to go to (or, you know, for running) one pair of black high heels for weddings, funerals or job interviews, and, the crown jewel, one pair of all purpose lace-ups which I wear when it´s not hot, I´m not at a gym (or, you know, running) and I´m not at a wedding, funeral or job interview.

At the moment, these shoes happen to be black leather lace-ups in a neutral business design, the reason being that I was working as an English teacher in the banks and law-firms of Frankfurt, Germany, when their predecessors died.

I´ve had the shoes in question for almost three years, only the first few months of which were actually spent in the banks and law-firms of Frankfurt. For the rest of the time they have served me well through most of Europe while I was doing anything and everything but nothing that had the least need of me looking anything like official. Right now they are backpacking through Peru with me. They´ve even climbed a mountain.

The black leather business lace-ups are black no more. They are  a scruffy and dented looking grey with red and white blobs of paint from when I helped a friend paint his office. The soles are worn so far that I can feel every single pebble I step on, the lining is completely gone, the age of being anything near waterproof has long passed. But somewhere underneath it all you can still see the proud Frankfurt business shoes of old.

Now, in Peru there exists such a thing as shoeshine boys (the word is my own invention). Every Plaza de Armas (ie main square) will have a number of these scruffy looking boys and young men carrying a little wooden box containing various shoeshine aids which also serves as their seat. The box sports a little pedestal that the client can rest his or her shoe on while it is being brushed and buffed.

The shoeshine boys of Peru have a problem: tourists, being the people who generally have money to have their shoes shined, in this day and age wear either sneakers or trekking shoes which are rather difficult  to shine. (I might add though that a hardened shoeshine boy, when paired with a tourist who has a guilty conscience and will give money for anything, will give it his best shot.)

You can imagine the hopeful gleam in their eye every time they spot me, single white female with money and shoes that not only are perfect for being shined, they also really need to be shined.

So here is my shoeshine boy story:

I have been backpacking through Peru the past few weeks, filling the time between working as an English teacher in Trujillo and flying home with the mandatory cultural visits and backpacking adventures, and every town I´ve visited has been increasingly more touristic.

In Trujillo, the city I lived for 5 months, where tourists only come to leave again as soon as possible, the shoeshine boys would nod at me and pull a questioning face, and then disappear as soon as I had shaken my head to tell them no, not today, thank you.

In Huaraz, a small mountain town which has a fair amount of backpackers of the most adventurous and sporty kind, the shoeshine boys would ask me softly if I wanted my shoes shined and I would have to reply audibly that, no, I didn´t want them shined today, thank you.

In Lima, the huge capital city, the boys would ask me and linger annoyingly after my no, apparently expecting me to change my mind.

In Arequipa, a beautiful big city in the lower mountains which has double decker touring buses in three colours touring the city  for the many tourists, the boys would come up to me in groups, and upon hearing my no, they would linger and ask repetitively: “Why not, you shoes are filthy!” 

At the moment I´m in Cusco. In Cusco, tourist capital of Peru, the centre of which is equal part tourist and Peruvian, the Peruvians being there because they are trying to sell things to the tourists, the boys come to me in droves, demand why I don´t want to have my shoes shined, and follow me around until the Plaza guard blows his whistle, at which point they will make a hasty retreat.

So why do I keep saying no? Firstly, because I really don´t care if my shoes are scruffy. I´m just that kind of person. Secondly, because I suspect some kind of trick. The boys usually quote one Nuevo Sol (25 Eurocents) as their price, and although this could theoretically buy them a simple meal at a Peruvian farmers market, it still strikes me as way too cheap. 

But earlier today I thought: You know what? I´m flying home soon, my shoes really are filthy, the next time a boy asks me respectfully without harassing me I´ll say yes.

30 seconds after sitting down on a bench on the Cusco Plaza de Armas I was having my shoes shined. The shoeshine boy had told me I could pay him anything I wanted and I decided quietly that I would give him 2 or 3 Soles for a mediocre job and 5 Soles for a good job. An excellent price, when you consider that an hourly wage in Peru is about 2 Soles.

He took out the lace of my right shoe and proceeded to give it the shine of a life time, with so many bottles of various liquids and brushes and cloths that I lost count. He also tried to make small talk, which he wasn´t particularly good at, even after I had convinced him that I truly, honestly spoke enough Spanish to follow him. (Cusco is the only city I´ve encountered in Peru where they speak English to you as a matter of course.)

Nearing the end of the first shoe, the shoeshine boy said:  I´m going to put a special liquid on your shoe now to finish off and make it shine. It won´t mark your trousers. I nodded to let him know I understood and he finished off my right shoe and started on the left.

About a tenth of the way in he suddenly announced that the special liquid he had used was 13 soles.

What the &%$* I said, I´m not going to pay that money, you can stop right now.

But I asked you if I could use the liquid, he said. Then he looked up at me innocently and pointed at my shoes, one shoe shining princely black like spat-out liquorice and the other still looking grey and worn like its unfortunately pauper-born twin.

I bloody-well knew it was a trick.

Luckily, there are two “fortunately for mes, and unfortunately for the shoeshine boys”:

Firstly, I speak Spanish. Now, my Spanish is nowhere near perfect but it is certainly a lot better than that of most Westerners in Cusco and I can say with absolute certainty that he never actually asked me to use the liquid or warned me about the price. I´m sure the language barrier and subsequent confusion with most tourists is what earns him his 13 soles. 

Secondly, I am the kind of person who walks around with white and red paint splatters on her shoes for 2 years and am consequently also the kind of person who will quite happily walk around with one shiny and one scruffy shoe. Just another opening for a good anecdote.

I ended up, after a lot of haggling on his end and me telling him to give me my shoelace back and go away on my end, paying 6 Soles for him to finish off the second shoe. It was one Sol more than I had planned to give anyway, as he had really done a rather good job. That one Sol still made me feel bad though. It´s funny how 25 Eurocents can make you feel bad as long as you have the feeling you were tricked out of it.

When these shoes die, I´ll be sure to buy some nice un-shineable trekking shoes. (Hey, if I wear black leather lace-ups for climbing mountains, I should obviously wear trekking shoes for studying psychology in The Netherlands…)

Yellow fever – Part 2

So I was in a Peruvian Regional Hospital looking for a door marked “vacunas” in order to get my Yellow Fever jab and I wasn´t doing very well.

There were several doors in several corridors all marked with an old sign telling the public what was happening (or at least should be happening) behind them. In front of every door were at least 2 dozen people sitting or standing around waiting; there were so many of them that it was impossible to tell who was waiting for which door. None of them looked really sick and all of them looked completely at peace with the fact that they may be sitting there for the rest of eternity.

I couldn´t find the door, so I waited patiently as a woman behind an official looking desk finished fishing bits of paper from an old cardboard box and giving them to a horde of impatient looking women one by one. (These were the only people I saw in the entire hospital who looked impatient. Bits of paper are apparently more important than medical attention). The bits of paper were alphabetised using bits of ripped up cardboard boxes with letters scrawled on them with ballpoint pen. Unfortunately, the horde of women turned out to be self-replenishing and in the end I had to call out, in between a piece of paper with the letter D and a piece of paper with the letter L, if she could tell me where the door marked “vacunas” was. “Down the hall and left” she said, without looking up from her fishing. That´s where I had been wandering around before, but she had gone back to 100% concentrated fishing, so I sighed and walked back to where I was before.

This time I continued down the hall until I ended up outside again, and asked a number of people, until finally a rushed looking doctor (the first and last one I saw) told me it was in the children´s ward; so it wasn´t in fact a door marked “vacunas” that I needed, but a completely separate building marked “Mundo de Niños”. With that information I found the place in 2 minutes.

Vaccinations turned out to be the door behind the second fridge where a tired but friendly lady informed me she would be happy to give me the Yellow Fever vaccination, except she didn´t have any, and could I please go and buy some and come back?

She gave me an address (which turned out to be 20 minutes from my home), so I took a taxi there, was informed I needed my passport, walked the 20 minutes home, got my passport, walked the 20 minutes back, got in, ordered the vaccine at one desk, paid for the vaccine at another desk, had to go pick it up in a separate little office which was filled with fridges and boxes and papers and 2 little Peruvian men who almost literally had to clamber over the boxes and fridges and papers to give me my vaccine, took a taxi back to the hospital where the first lady was no longer there and two chatty young nurses were delighted to have somebody to inject with something who was over the age of one.

It took me 4 hours, 5 taxi rides and 2 20-minute-walks to get that bloody jab and the bit of paper to prove I have it… However, it only cost me about 15 Euros, so the stingy Dutch person inside me is happy. Yay!