Travel insurance. My best purchase of the year so far.
I find myself once again in a hospital bed, laptop on lap, big needle in arm, a concoction of unidentified drugs coursing through my veins.
After 33 years without spending a night in hospital (as far as I can recall), the parasites have attacked me again - the second time in three months. The inside of my body probably looks like something out of an (early) James Cameron film*.
I arrived in Cusco early on Monday after an altitude-affected overnight bus from Arequipa. As we climbed ever higher above sea level, my breaths became harder and harder to take.
I'm a light sleeper on the best of nights, but when it feels like a small man (or woman. I'm not sexist) is sitting on your shoulder and pinching your oesophagus a couple of times a minute, sleep takes second priority to staying alive.
That's obviously being over-dramatic, but despite going on several ski trips as a teenager, and other trips to high altitude (such as the visit to the 5,000m+ high Cotopaxi volcano last month), I can't ever recall shortage of breath like I've had in Cusco.
Because my final day in Arequipa was spent in bed, I hadn't booked any accommodation in Cusco. At the bus station at 6.30am I was met by a cluster of men and women thrusting laminated pictures of their bedrooms in my face.
Rather than a strange Peruvian mating game, this was the hoteliers' way of conducting business. I pushed past them, took a breather in the loo, came out, sat down, and was soon approached by an old guy who could speak English.
He had a private room with private bathroom for the princely sum of 30 soles a night (about 7 quid). I said yes, he said let's go and we went.
It turned out he was just the taxi-driving middle man. We got to the un-named guesthouse, hidden behind a big wooden door just a couple of blocks from the Plaza des Armas, and met the owner.
I saw the room - fine - and the owner then asked for 45 soles a night. Now I'm not tight (usually), and can afford 10 pounds a night, even when promised 7, but at 8am after a sleepless night I wasn't in the mood to negotiate.
I explained that Taxi Man and I had agreed a price. It was a gentleman's agreement (involving the all-important firm handshake) and, with it being low season, 30 soles was fair.
He backed down to 40, then 35, then refused to budge. At this point I was past caring, but was probably feeling (a bit too?) defiant. I picked up my bag and was heading out the door before he agreed to the (agreed) price of 30 soles.
Blimey, it was like a negotiating stand-off on The Apprentice. And all over 3 quid.
Hey ho.
After a short sleep I took a walk through the centre of the city. It's a very attractive place. Little cobbled alleyways, big red-brick churches and evidence of Inca history everywhere you look.
That evening I met up with James and Sarah (again), plus Andy (who I'd previously met in Medellin and Mancora) and some other folks staying in their hostel.
It was to be a momentous evening: The Evening We Ate Guinea Pig For The First Time.
We went to a restaurant that Andy had found online, and who specialised in Cuy. On the menu were two choices: Cuy al horno (roast guinea pig) and Cuy al friend (a misspelt fried guinea pig).
We plumped for the roast, and some 45 minutes and several drinks later, these badboys arrived:
We spent several minutes capturing this historic moment on camera. It would never be repeated. We were the guinea pigs in our own lives, trying this curious Peruvian delicacy for the first time.
I don't apologise for any of these pictures. Others were taking far worse:
Chewy.
And the taste? Similar to chicken, but slightly gamier (if that's a word). Not much meat on them though, so I was glad of the potato and empañada side dishes.
As it was a night for first times, and an experience I was unlikely to repeat, I joined Andy in the true and proper cuy tradition: the eating of the brain.
One is supposed to suck the brain out of the dismembered head and chew on its spongy form. Luckily, being the friend that he is, Andy managed to break open the skull with his fingers and presented us both with a piece of the finest guinea pig brain in Cusco.
In my current state, running to the toilet every 30 minutes, I probably shouldn't try and recall the taste. But this blog won't write itself and I want to record all the good and bad bits of my travels.
Chewing on the brain of a dead rodent safely falls into the latter category.
It was white, mushy, and tasted like something you'd find at the back of the fridge in a wet grocery bag. After getting home from a two-week holiday.
So, following our own I'm A Celebrity-esque brain trial, I reckon we deserved a good night out. The owner of the restaurant had a deal going with the club across the road and we were given loads of free drinks tokens, plus free entry, to a fun nightspot.
We danced to salsa, and then to the usual South American favourites (Black Eyed Peas, Los Lobos, and songs that you hear EVERYWHERE but I have no idea who they're by). It was a good night:
My first climbing-on-the-bar act of the trip so far. Had to be done.
The next day I woke up with a hellish hangover but made it outside in time for lunch. In hindsight I wish I hadn't.
After moving hostels to be with friends, I went to one of the numerous local restaurants you find all over South America, where they have a set menu (Menu Del Dia) featuring a starter and a main - plus a juice.
The one I chose was busy with locals. A good sign, no?
I was given a soup that contained just about every ingredient from the kitchen (corn with cabbage and a bit of brown meat, Sir?). It was just about passable, as these Menu Del Dia soups usually are.
For the main course it was a lump of pesto spaghetti with a chicken drumstick. A decent, if unusual, combo.
The pasta was ok, and the chicken was too. Until I delved slightly further in towards the bone and pink meat started appearing. Hungry, hungover, and trusting the locals (all of who were eating the same dishes), I plowed on.
A couple of hours later I had the runs. A couple of hours after that I had a fever. A short time later, a headache.
The exact same symptoms as I had in Gorkana and then Hampi, in India. That time it was Salmonella, this time I feared something similar.
After an afternoon, and a long, sweaty night in bed, I knew better this time than to try and sit this thing out. In India I waited a week, getting worse by the day, and ended up spending six days in hospital.
This time, I went straight to the hostel reception and they phoned a doctor. He arrived and we went by ambulance to the clinic.
The clinic didn't appear to be the most upmarket place, tucked down a side street near the grotty bus station - but it was recommended by the hostel and the staff seemed friendly enough. And besides, at that stage there was little alternative.
I was ushered into a tiny, windowless room. The bed had the previous occupant's hair on the pillow and sheet, so I declined to go under the covers. I had several initial visits from various nurses and a doctor who looked barely twenty.
With my poor Spanish and their poor English, conversating was a bit of a struggle, but I was happy to undergo all the tests they wanted to perform and be put on a drip.
After several hours, and feeling more and more like I was in a prison, they came in and told me that I was moving upstairs. Hurrah! Anything would be preferable to a 2m x 3m box, with an adjoining toilet that didn't have a toilet seat...
The upstairs room is almost palatial by comparison. A large semi-circular layout with a big plasma TV, a decent bed, a laptop, and yes - a toilet seat on the toilet! Praise the lord for he bringeth comfort.
It actually turns out that I was in a holding bay/observation room downstairs yesterday, and the kind nurses apologised for keeping me there for so long.
In other exciting clinic news, my drip was moved from my left arm:
To my right arm today:
This morning, as the nurse failed to locate a vein for the third time, each time skewering me with intense pain, I felt like grabbing the needle and doing the job myself.
In India they had no problem locating a little blue channel in my hand. Here, they keep complaining I have too much hair around my wrist area (the best place to insert a drip) and that my veins are porqueño (ie, small).
I must make a note to check out the wrists, and veins, of the local Peruvian men.
Apart from that, the nurses are nice enough - but seem taken aback when you ask for anything. Yesterday I hadn't had anything to eat for a few hours - and when you're shitting out your insides twice an hour you need to keep eating and drinking.
I asked for a coca tea (as the altitude is still affecting my breathing) and something to eat. They seemed flustered by this request and came back with the coca tea and two small pieces of bread:
I asked for something to go on the bread, and they returned 10 minutes later with a thimble-full of jam.
As I was tactically spreading the inch of jam across the bread surface with the teaspoon (no knife or butter), I began to wonder why I didn't go to my first-choice, 'highly recommended' clinic in my guidebook.
But no matter. Yesterday was another day, and up here is better. I even got the jam delivered WITH my bread this morning.
The diagnosis, according to my Spanish-worded medical report...
...is DESHIDRATACION MODERADA, GASTROENTEROCOLITIS AGUDA Y PARASITOSIS. Which in English means moderate dehydration, acute gastroenterocolitis and parasitosis.
Pleasant.
This morning I was allowed out, and driven back into central Cusco to do a couple of errands. Firstly, I had to cancel my trek to Machu Picchu as the doctor said I would probably still be having stomach 'issues' until Sunday.
I didn't fancy a 6 hour hike uphill in constant need of a crap, so the trek had to go. A shame, but these things happen.
I went to the agent, needle sticking out my arm and doctor's certificate in hand, and explained I wanted to cancel. She looked at me like I'd just spat in her face.
I explained the reasons, and asked what her refund policy was. After an audible sigh, she moaned that she had already had to pay the government for my entry fee (true) and an additional 'tax' (possibly true). She then said another person on the trek had pulled out, and had paid a lot more than me - and wouldn't be getting any of it back (surely false).
At this stage I felt like pulling the needle out of my arm and stabbing her in the eye with it. Luckily, that remained just a thought in my fatigued mind.
I stood my ground, got some cash back (but not all) and still have an entry to Machu Picchu if I can make it there by Tuesday.
After that lack of sympathy, I had a much friendlier welcome at my hostel who let me off last night's dorm room charge even though I had left all my stuff in the room, on the bed etc.
And that's about that. I am currently sitting up in my bed, listening to Grandaddy on my iPhone speaker and watching Colombian football on ESPN. On the mend, I reckon.
Oh, and there's a welder outside my window creating a firework display of sparks - all of which are landing on sheets of polystyrene that join onto the wall of my room.
Gotta love the Peruvian Health and Safety.
As for the rest of Cusco, including pictures, I'll need to put that in the next post (assuming no welding-induced fire happens in the meantime) - as I haven't really 'done' the city yet, nor taken any pictures of it.
Until then, here's a pic for the family album:
* I'm thinking Aliens, rather than Rambo: First Blood Part II
I find myself once again in a hospital bed, laptop on lap, big needle in arm, a concoction of unidentified drugs coursing through my veins.
After 33 years without spending a night in hospital (as far as I can recall), the parasites have attacked me again - the second time in three months. The inside of my body probably looks like something out of an (early) James Cameron film*.
I arrived in Cusco early on Monday after an altitude-affected overnight bus from Arequipa. As we climbed ever higher above sea level, my breaths became harder and harder to take.
I'm a light sleeper on the best of nights, but when it feels like a small man (or woman. I'm not sexist) is sitting on your shoulder and pinching your oesophagus a couple of times a minute, sleep takes second priority to staying alive.
That's obviously being over-dramatic, but despite going on several ski trips as a teenager, and other trips to high altitude (such as the visit to the 5,000m+ high Cotopaxi volcano last month), I can't ever recall shortage of breath like I've had in Cusco.
Because my final day in Arequipa was spent in bed, I hadn't booked any accommodation in Cusco. At the bus station at 6.30am I was met by a cluster of men and women thrusting laminated pictures of their bedrooms in my face.
Rather than a strange Peruvian mating game, this was the hoteliers' way of conducting business. I pushed past them, took a breather in the loo, came out, sat down, and was soon approached by an old guy who could speak English.
He had a private room with private bathroom for the princely sum of 30 soles a night (about 7 quid). I said yes, he said let's go and we went.
It turned out he was just the taxi-driving middle man. We got to the un-named guesthouse, hidden behind a big wooden door just a couple of blocks from the Plaza des Armas, and met the owner.
I saw the room - fine - and the owner then asked for 45 soles a night. Now I'm not tight (usually), and can afford 10 pounds a night, even when promised 7, but at 8am after a sleepless night I wasn't in the mood to negotiate.
I explained that Taxi Man and I had agreed a price. It was a gentleman's agreement (involving the all-important firm handshake) and, with it being low season, 30 soles was fair.
He backed down to 40, then 35, then refused to budge. At this point I was past caring, but was probably feeling (a bit too?) defiant. I picked up my bag and was heading out the door before he agreed to the (agreed) price of 30 soles.
Blimey, it was like a negotiating stand-off on The Apprentice. And all over 3 quid.
Hey ho.
After a short sleep I took a walk through the centre of the city. It's a very attractive place. Little cobbled alleyways, big red-brick churches and evidence of Inca history everywhere you look.
That evening I met up with James and Sarah (again), plus Andy (who I'd previously met in Medellin and Mancora) and some other folks staying in their hostel.
It was to be a momentous evening: The Evening We Ate Guinea Pig For The First Time.
We went to a restaurant that Andy had found online, and who specialised in Cuy. On the menu were two choices: Cuy al horno (roast guinea pig) and Cuy al friend (a misspelt fried guinea pig).
We plumped for the roast, and some 45 minutes and several drinks later, these badboys arrived:
The presentation style was just as well, as I always insist my roasted animal wears a tomato hat and chews on a fat orange chilli.
We spent several minutes capturing this historic moment on camera. It would never be repeated. We were the guinea pigs in our own lives, trying this curious Peruvian delicacy for the first time.
I don't apologise for any of these pictures. Others were taking far worse:
Chewy.
And the taste? Similar to chicken, but slightly gamier (if that's a word). Not much meat on them though, so I was glad of the potato and empañada side dishes.
As it was a night for first times, and an experience I was unlikely to repeat, I joined Andy in the true and proper cuy tradition: the eating of the brain.
One is supposed to suck the brain out of the dismembered head and chew on its spongy form. Luckily, being the friend that he is, Andy managed to break open the skull with his fingers and presented us both with a piece of the finest guinea pig brain in Cusco.
In my current state, running to the toilet every 30 minutes, I probably shouldn't try and recall the taste. But this blog won't write itself and I want to record all the good and bad bits of my travels.
Chewing on the brain of a dead rodent safely falls into the latter category.
It was white, mushy, and tasted like something you'd find at the back of the fridge in a wet grocery bag. After getting home from a two-week holiday.
So, following our own I'm A Celebrity-esque brain trial, I reckon we deserved a good night out. The owner of the restaurant had a deal going with the club across the road and we were given loads of free drinks tokens, plus free entry, to a fun nightspot.
We danced to salsa, and then to the usual South American favourites (Black Eyed Peas, Los Lobos, and songs that you hear EVERYWHERE but I have no idea who they're by). It was a good night:
My first climbing-on-the-bar act of the trip so far. Had to be done.
The next day I woke up with a hellish hangover but made it outside in time for lunch. In hindsight I wish I hadn't.
After moving hostels to be with friends, I went to one of the numerous local restaurants you find all over South America, where they have a set menu (Menu Del Dia) featuring a starter and a main - plus a juice.
The one I chose was busy with locals. A good sign, no?
I was given a soup that contained just about every ingredient from the kitchen (corn with cabbage and a bit of brown meat, Sir?). It was just about passable, as these Menu Del Dia soups usually are.
For the main course it was a lump of pesto spaghetti with a chicken drumstick. A decent, if unusual, combo.
The pasta was ok, and the chicken was too. Until I delved slightly further in towards the bone and pink meat started appearing. Hungry, hungover, and trusting the locals (all of who were eating the same dishes), I plowed on.
A couple of hours later I had the runs. A couple of hours after that I had a fever. A short time later, a headache.
The exact same symptoms as I had in Gorkana and then Hampi, in India. That time it was Salmonella, this time I feared something similar.
After an afternoon, and a long, sweaty night in bed, I knew better this time than to try and sit this thing out. In India I waited a week, getting worse by the day, and ended up spending six days in hospital.
This time, I went straight to the hostel reception and they phoned a doctor. He arrived and we went by ambulance to the clinic.
The clinic didn't appear to be the most upmarket place, tucked down a side street near the grotty bus station - but it was recommended by the hostel and the staff seemed friendly enough. And besides, at that stage there was little alternative.
I was ushered into a tiny, windowless room. The bed had the previous occupant's hair on the pillow and sheet, so I declined to go under the covers. I had several initial visits from various nurses and a doctor who looked barely twenty.
With my poor Spanish and their poor English, conversating was a bit of a struggle, but I was happy to undergo all the tests they wanted to perform and be put on a drip.
After several hours, and feeling more and more like I was in a prison, they came in and told me that I was moving upstairs. Hurrah! Anything would be preferable to a 2m x 3m box, with an adjoining toilet that didn't have a toilet seat...
The upstairs room is almost palatial by comparison. A large semi-circular layout with a big plasma TV, a decent bed, a laptop, and yes - a toilet seat on the toilet! Praise the lord for he bringeth comfort.
It actually turns out that I was in a holding bay/observation room downstairs yesterday, and the kind nurses apologised for keeping me there for so long.
In other exciting clinic news, my drip was moved from my left arm:
To my right arm today:
This morning, as the nurse failed to locate a vein for the third time, each time skewering me with intense pain, I felt like grabbing the needle and doing the job myself.
In India they had no problem locating a little blue channel in my hand. Here, they keep complaining I have too much hair around my wrist area (the best place to insert a drip) and that my veins are porqueño (ie, small).
I must make a note to check out the wrists, and veins, of the local Peruvian men.
Apart from that, the nurses are nice enough - but seem taken aback when you ask for anything. Yesterday I hadn't had anything to eat for a few hours - and when you're shitting out your insides twice an hour you need to keep eating and drinking.
I asked for a coca tea (as the altitude is still affecting my breathing) and something to eat. They seemed flustered by this request and came back with the coca tea and two small pieces of bread:
I asked for something to go on the bread, and they returned 10 minutes later with a thimble-full of jam.
As I was tactically spreading the inch of jam across the bread surface with the teaspoon (no knife or butter), I began to wonder why I didn't go to my first-choice, 'highly recommended' clinic in my guidebook.
But no matter. Yesterday was another day, and up here is better. I even got the jam delivered WITH my bread this morning.
The diagnosis, according to my Spanish-worded medical report...
...is DESHIDRATACION MODERADA, GASTROENTEROCOLITIS AGUDA Y PARASITOSIS. Which in English means moderate dehydration, acute gastroenterocolitis and parasitosis.
Pleasant.
This morning I was allowed out, and driven back into central Cusco to do a couple of errands. Firstly, I had to cancel my trek to Machu Picchu as the doctor said I would probably still be having stomach 'issues' until Sunday.
I didn't fancy a 6 hour hike uphill in constant need of a crap, so the trek had to go. A shame, but these things happen.
I went to the agent, needle sticking out my arm and doctor's certificate in hand, and explained I wanted to cancel. She looked at me like I'd just spat in her face.
I explained the reasons, and asked what her refund policy was. After an audible sigh, she moaned that she had already had to pay the government for my entry fee (true) and an additional 'tax' (possibly true). She then said another person on the trek had pulled out, and had paid a lot more than me - and wouldn't be getting any of it back (surely false).
At this stage I felt like pulling the needle out of my arm and stabbing her in the eye with it. Luckily, that remained just a thought in my fatigued mind.
I stood my ground, got some cash back (but not all) and still have an entry to Machu Picchu if I can make it there by Tuesday.
After that lack of sympathy, I had a much friendlier welcome at my hostel who let me off last night's dorm room charge even though I had left all my stuff in the room, on the bed etc.
And that's about that. I am currently sitting up in my bed, listening to Grandaddy on my iPhone speaker and watching Colombian football on ESPN. On the mend, I reckon.
Oh, and there's a welder outside my window creating a firework display of sparks - all of which are landing on sheets of polystyrene that join onto the wall of my room.
Gotta love the Peruvian Health and Safety.
As for the rest of Cusco, including pictures, I'll need to put that in the next post (assuming no welding-induced fire happens in the meantime) - as I haven't really 'done' the city yet, nor taken any pictures of it.
Until then, here's a pic for the family album:
* I'm thinking Aliens, rather than Rambo: First Blood Part II