Cuzco And The Sacred Valley of Tourists

First impressions of Cuzco in the evening were bound to be lasting. Symmetrical colonial buildings bordering the Plaza were gently lit with warm orange tones that enhanced their intricate designs. The ancient cobblestone streets were polished from millennia of wear, and jolted us in our seats as our friendly cab driver introduced the major landmarks we passed. We spent the ensuing days wandering the attractive town, declining meals on special at hawkers' restaurants, but accepting massage deals from competitive young women ushering us towards their small salons.

A popular day tour out of Cuzco was an excursion to visit local markets and ancient structures in The Sacred Valley. Markets were markets, selling the same things, and minor ruins felt increasingly like some square rocks on a hill. More memorable than The Sacred Valley was a Latin American family on the tour. They behaved worse than Western tourists, throwing away cash for tacky souvenirs. Hats, water bottle carriers, alpaca jumpers were all bought and immediately worn. The mother was outspoken and thought herself quite clever, making jokes with the poor guide and frequently interrupting his explanations with a quip and guffaw. One of the children would try to catch our eye to proudly show off her average drawing. I refused to respond to mediocrity with encouragement. The grandmother summoned Julie with a "¡Chica! ¡Ingles, ingles!" each time the guide started in English, as if he could not be heard three metres away and Julie favoured everyone's attentions. They delayed the bus' departures from each stop by haggling with street vendors. Then, they started singing and clapping in the bus. Defeated, other passengers participated. Julie turned up the volume on her iPod. I recalled similarities between this occasion and the times Julie and I sang from the back of the 4WD in Salar De Uyuni to the exasperation of our tour mates. Karma sure is a bitch!