You can't do that

Arequipa to the Colca Canyon

Sunday was Election Day in Arequipa and voting is compulsory in Peru. In this case it took on biblical proportions, as our weekend driver, along with everybody else in the country, was expected to return to the area of his birth to fulfil this obligation. Result! Our original 7.30am wake up call (with no breakfast) had happily become a more chilled 10.30am departure, followed by a backstreet trawl in our minibus of downtown Arequipa, looking for said chauffeur in his hometown polling station. We finally headed out about 11am, from the post-apocalyptic landscape of a dust covered market, surrounded by half constructed buildings and torn-down candidate posters.

When I say 'we', I mean myself, the bus driver, the guide and a party of three German couples and their younger Peruana friend who had lived in Zurich for nine years and seemed to be acting as informal interpreter for the group. I must confess to feeling just a little isolated, especially as they were the only non English-speaking Germans I had ever met, until the man sitting beside me admitted to speaking French. On arrival in Peru, I never imagined that by the end of the trip I would be so tuned into the Spanish language that I would be struggling to speak Franglais to a German because only Spanish words would come to mind!

Following a scenic journey through the volcanic desert fallout zone surrounding Arequipa's cement factory, we 'prepared' for our arrival at the highest point of our trip (4,910 metres) with a pit stop at a moor-top tea shack, where two leather-clad, cloud travellers, pausing for refreshment and directions, had already parked their Darth Vader helmeted bikes amid the spiky patches of grass. Along with the Dutch hotel bus, they provided dramatic foreground interest for my first photos. No half measures would suffice for this withering height. Only a 'triple' would do: I drank an infusion of muna, coca and chachacoma leaves in a mug. With cake.

Suitably fortified, we continued our journey, across flat, marshy, vicuña country. Large managed herds of these fragile beasts mingle with wild, wooly, sheep-like alpaca. Squirrel-tailed rabbits hop amongst the surrounding rocky tundra, protected against indecent exposure by chinchilla fur coats and tufty ears. On arrival at the volcanic viewpoint of the Mirador de los Andes, we were conscious of the many others who had gone before us. Believing the gods to be closer and more receptive at these heavenly heights, previous visitors had fashioned a lunar landscape from precariously placed, rock cairn offerings.

We eventually arrived at our hotel, an alpine style lodge (all wood furnishings, roaring fires, and surround sound views of the mountains from the dining table) for 'lunch' at 4pm. On offer was a Peruvian buffet with at least 15 different dishes. "You must try them all." And that was just the first course. No Wifi. Did I mention the pet llama wandering past the window? After the meal, we were given a guided walk (I needed it) to the village square, in the rain. Matching umbrellas were available.

The wonderful finale to our day was a twilight ride (in our trusty van) on a bumpy farm track, across the fields, strangely, full of cows and donkeys. There is nothing more surprising than rounding a corner to see a black and white splodged Friesian or a family of donkeys, when you have been used to plains full of relatives of the camel! Ahead, steam was rising. Luckily, not from the ex-volcanos looming over us, but from the hot springs in a roofless tin hut at the end of the trail. By the time we had changed and were easing ourselves into the fiercely hot water it was completely dark. The starlit sky was our ceiling. A hazy moon cast an eerie half-light on the water, reflecting the mountains.Leia mais