March 25: Arequipa

Spent a greater part of the morning watching English Premier League soccer in the TV room (Liverpool v Everton and Chelsea v Manchester City). One of my favorite perks of traveling is that I can always find soccer on TV, whereas in The States I'd be stuck with anything but. After having my fill, I ventured out into another perfect Arequipa day. I killed a little time wandering around the Plaza de Armas, and then settled into a small cafe on a back alley to read my book. My solitude was interrupted by a parade that grew larger and louder as it poured in closer to the main square. Ever the voyeur, I settled my bill and watched the remainder of this presidential campaign rally for Pastor Humberto Lay Sun of the National Restoration Party. My support still lies with Javier Espinoza... the man who says everything he needs to say with a toothy grin and a thumbs up!

I had held out on eating pretty much all day in anticipation of my alpaca dinner at Sonccollay. When I made my way upstairs, I found Walter in his kitchen, standing intensely over his grill. He greeted me with a giant, hearty handshake, and proceeded to explain the alpaca options on the menu before having his server show me to my table on the patio. I settled on the alpaca leg dinner for S/. 18... this included two giant pieces of alpaca served on hot, volcanic rocks, a salad of tomatoes, potatoes, avocado, and several other tasty bits, and a dipping sauce for everything. Walter arrived at my table as the meal was being served, and gave me a menacing smile as I searched the table for eating utensils. With giant fists extending out from his massive frame, he growled, "Now, attack with hands!"

Meet Walter Bustamante, the culinary brains behind "magic ancient cuisine." After dinner, we snapped a couple photos in his kitchen - in my hands I hold the giant alpaca leg from which came my dinner, and below us lies the grill from which my dinner became yummy. Before leaving, we stepped over to his bar and had a shot of Pisco. Before throwing it down, Walter instructed me, several times, to dip my finger in the liquor and flick a drop to the ground. Each time we toasted something different... mother Earth, our parents, our friends, our health, and so on and so forth until I feared that there may not be any more Pisco left in my glass. I guess this is sort of a common practice, for even on the Inca Trail Flavio had made a point of offering both food and drink to the ground. Finally, I took my leave and returned to the hostel.

Back at the hostel, I sat down at one of the low-sit tables with Nina (German / Polish), John (English), and Max (Austrian) to teach them how to play Hearts. A game that sort of became our college lifeblood for me and my roomies in the famous Macomb House in Washington, DC, Hearts was completely new to my foreign friends. Amazingly, Max managed to win the damn game by accidentally shooting the moon (taking all the hearts and the queen of spades in one turn). Before that, Nina earned the nickname "The Bitch" for her uncanny ability to ruin my attempts at shooting the moon. "The Bitch" is what we used to call the queen of spades. Anyway, it was a great way to kill time during happy hour at The Point.

John, The Bitch, and Ugly American. Later that evening, me and Irish bartender Danny set off for the plaza with two new Aussie travelers, a local Peruvian señorita, and a Norwegian girl who was living (temporarily) in Arequipa. Our first stop was a dance club along the Plaza de Armas called Daddy-O's. It's free entry for gringos, but I have no idea what locals pay to get in. Upon entering, gringos (or perhaps everyone) are given tickets that you can turn in to the bartender with S/. 1 for a beer. Then, when you go to purchase your next round, you bring up the empty bottle from your previous beer with S/. 1 and you get another beer. It's a brilliant system, actually. Our night was rather short, however, when Danny (who, like the Dutch girl and my Hearts partners, was also suffering from parasites) became horribly ill. Clenching his stomach and sweating profusely, he began to stumble and looked as though he was about to pass out. We managed to get him out of the club to some fresh air. Sitting on the steps, he proclaimed, "I think I'll go back to the hostel for half an hour and then come back out." God bless the Irish. Still tired from the previous night, I decided to call it an evening and go to bed.

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