Cusco

Our next stop was Cusco, archeological hub of Peru and the springboard to Machu Picchu - a city interfused with Inca and colonial heritage, where camping gear is touted as often as massages and cocaine. 

We stayed in the eclectic Milhouse, sharing a dorm with a couple of women  who "don't wash until we smell ourselves" - luckily, For Tali's Sake, this didn't affect the bathroom cleanliness. Forsaking the ruins of the surrounding sacred valley, we passed our time in the hostel ballpit (a South American standard, along with rabid resident dogs). 

18 going on 4

Andrex puppy, ft rabies

Cusco is equally rambunctious at night. Along with Charlie Shaw (a friend from London), we were bundled into a "party bus" - an open top VW camper van - and hurtled around the city; our first taste of kidnapping? PB pulled up outside Temple, a club with as much class as N-Dubz's Tulisa, and where - as I learnt the hard way - the local men don't solely grind on gringo girls.

Party Bus, or How To Get Kidnapped

What is the gringo in Cusco?  They near outnumber the locals,  almost every shop is geared towards their needs, English has displaced the ancient Quechua language. And yet Cusco remains the city closest to its history (still celebrating Corpus Christi, see below), and the gringo a distinct creature. Trying to enter the cathedral (which took 100 years to build), I unsuccessfully reasoned "pero soy catolico" - gringo catholic is different from local. 

From Cusco we embarked upon a 4 day "jungle trek" to Machu Picchu (accounts follow), returning to meet our friends Milly, Ted and Paris before heading to Bolivia. 

Choc "museum"

Cocoa addiction

Corpus Christi was in full swing when we arrived back in the city: it used to be an Incan festival in which the mummified bodies of past Incas (sun king) were paraded and revered.

 Main cathedral during CC

Although the Spanish replaced the corpses with biblical figures, the festival maintains a link to the inca heritage, with fried guinea pigs abounding. 

With love

Arequipa

Arequipa was our base for several days - a white stone, colonial city where we ate like (bibbed, geriatric) kings, shopped amongst pig brains, and slept under the gaze of the overtowering El Misti volcano (and the gaze of Billy, a creepy gambling addict in the girls' dorm).

El Misti from bed

Bibendum

With our first view of the Andes, it wasn't hard to understand why the Incas revered the snow-capped mountains, even turning to human sacrifice when natural disasters occurred. Juanita is Arequipa's best-known celeb. But she dead - 500 years so. Her 14-year old body, sacrificed to the mountains, was preserved in ice, astonishingly so. Issy expected her to be still alive in an ice block (think Ice Age films). 

Local Hot Spots

Resembling Juanita, we arose at 3am one day to visit the Colca Canyon, the second-deepest canyon in the world at 3300m (twice the depth of the Grand Canyon). It is ridiculously epic, all the more so because of the Condors (wingspan 3.3m #whoinvitedthisguy?) that fly above it. I can only do justice to it through the medium of selfie:

On the precipice

Colca valley

The incas who populated and terraced the canyon were a weird bunch - they thought earthquakes were mountains getting it on, and deformed children's heads into a cone shape (causing the brain to pop through the top on occasion). Parenting - you're doing it wrong. 

Finally, we visited the Monasteria Santa Catalina, a citadel within the city. The nuns were originally from rich families, so it was their habit (pardon da pun) to go large - this changed, and so nowadays it's a meditative, mazelike place. On to cusco. 

With love

Huacachina

We rolled late into Huacachina, basing ourselves at the casa de bamboo. It was only in the morning we witnessed the surreality of Huacachina's setting - the town surrounds an oasis which is itself surrounded by huuuumungous sand dunes. Tali was a little unsettled by the sight - "wait, so are we close to Spain now?" Budding geographer Issy couldn't explain the formation, but did share what yellow she would use to colour in.

The oasis itself is grimy, resembling the dregs of an alpaca stew at the bottom of a sand bowl. "Only the locals swim in it" warned Beth, our host, explaining the large number of mutant limbs on show. 

Our favourite local was Javier, a bar owner who seemed to have an affection complex - to avoid his sweaty hugs/handshakes/kisses we spent the next couple of days detouring around the other side of the oasis. "I'm from Huaca-f#%king-china" he roared at one point, "where are you from?" My reply of "Kensing-f%#cking-ton" didn't quite have the same ring to it. 

In the late afternoon the air hums with the noise of dune buggy engines - we boarded one of the strange, beetle-like machines and skittered across the dunes. Diego, the driver, had something of a death wish, hurling us over the tops of dunes. I was nominated to try sandboarding first, and my abysmal effort shattered my esteem and my pelvis. 

Dune buggy danger selfie

Gollum's cousin

Before catching a night bus to Arequipa we relaxed in town, during which a crazy local (who'd recognised me as a fellow Indiana Jones type) proposed that I go with him on a trip 200km into the desert to "search for lost inca treasure". #brokeback

With love