"The main thing: don't change money on the street. They'll cheat you, fleece you, you won't even have time to blink," we were warned on the very first evening. This is a misconception - who are they going to cheat? Me? That's funny: they'll be crying over their own losses. On the streets of Lima, men in solid yellow vests, like our parking attendants, stand everywhere with huge signs reading "dollars - euros." The exchange rate is determined by agreement between you and has nothing to do with the exchange rate. When we asked to change money at the hotel, the indigenous girl at the reception said, "One moment," and within 10 minutes one of those yellow vests briskly walked into the hotel. In the hotel lobby, they obviously behave like honest caballeros, they don't cheat or fleece, unlike on the street, where the same yellow vest instantly becomes a hardened repeat-offender robber.
However, in Lima, where 9 million people live in conditions well below average, crime is indeed high. Many seedy places, prostitutes everywhere, an atmosphere of constant carnival and mild intoxication. The guys here are hot-tempered, and a bag with a wallet lying on a chair next to you causes an irresistible pang of nostalgia in them, which they cannot overcome. Unfortunately, we didn't have time to enjoy the delights of capital life, because the next morning after arrival we were woken at dawn and sent south to see the mysterious Nazca desert lines.
In the countryside, everything is peaceful and patriarchal. As in any poor country, people here are in no hurry and are greatly surprised when someone else is in a hurry. In such a country, a driver will sit in the car for two hours waiting for you near the hotel to follow the route, and then when you show up, he'll go to the gas station for fuel, to his home for documents he forgot to bring, somewhere else for a spare tire, and so on.
"You bastard, couldn't you have gone earlier?" But he couldn’t - I know for sure. And he will definitely stop the car somewhere on the roadside, having driven 200 meters from the airport where he picked you up after a cheerful 20-hour flight, turn around and say: "Now I want to tell you about tomorrow's program."
He didn't know. He has pure intentions, how could he know that for such jokes in Moscow they'd smash your head in. After a brief physical explanation that his life depends on the speed at which he takes us to the hotel, he was amazed all the way how one could drive and talk about our tomorrow's program at the same time.
A few days before a trip to the other side of the world, news helps a lot. Before leaving for Mali, I happily read on the Internet about the Tuareg rebellion in that country. I paid close attention to the desperate calls from the Russian Foreign Ministry not to set foot there. My arrival in Kenya was preceded by agency reports of outbreaks of tropical diseases flourishing in those areas of the state where my route lay. Two days before leaving for Peru to see the Nazca lines, the RBC website told me an exciting story about how six French tourists "kicked the bucket" right there in a plane crash. Useful information never hurts, after all.
But now I know in detail how and why it happened. When the pilot of a single-engine tub, flying by the grace of the wind and in the same direction, pulled the yoke and leaned back in his seat with the invigorating sign: "Pilot tips are welcome," the flight did not promise any fun. But then he unexpectedly, like a surprise, sharply tilted the plane to the left, perpendicular to the ground, so that the engine shrieked its last cry, and, letting go of the controls, turned to us with his whole body, with a dazzling smile and a sparkle in his eyes, shouted: "Look, it's the monkey figure!" Pointing his hand somewhere far below, while the plane was inexorably spiraling into a deep spin.
Here my chronic fear of heights, which I've had since childhood, came in very handy. For all 30 minutes of the flight, I sat as straight as possible, recalling the best moments of my life, and the monkey figure interested me less than anything in the world. The faces of the other four passengers also showed no excitement, so the pilot alone, noisily and sequentially, admired: the giant figures of the condor, parrot, hummingbird, frog, and other critters that 2,000 years ago unknown people drew in the sand for our destruction. If any passenger before this flight still harbored naive childhood dreams of a romantic career as an aviator, those dreams disappeared forever in those minutes. That day the pilot didn't receive a tip, but I am still grateful to that brave man, to whom, to be honest, I owe my life.
Thank God, most of Peru's attractions are concentrated on solid ground. Locals even worship "mother-earth" named Pachamama, while not forgetting to call themselves Christians. In Catholic churches, images of the eight-armed Christ peacefully coexist with pagan images of the big-breasted pregnant Pachamama, and on the roofs of Peruvian houses, a Christian cross and two bull statuettes - deities of domestic coziness - inevitably adorn.
Pagan deities, unlike Jesus, have lived here for millennia, and it's practically impossible to eradicate them. Many local civilizations originated on Lake Titicaca, the highest in the world - first the Tiwanaku culture arose here, whose representatives built tombs in the form of towers, then on its bones emerged the more advanced Inca civilization, which in turn was toppled by the Spanish, but the remnants of which are still one of the most remarkable attractions of Peru.
Ruins always look picturesque anyway, so let the Incas be thankful that they were ruined. Peruvians, of course, now sing songs about the incredible technological progress of the Incas, but you and I know that they did not know iron, did not even attempt to domesticate animals, instead of writing they tied 'quipu' knots that are impossible to decipher, and used the calendar only for ritual purposes. Moreover, they sincerely believed (to their misfortune) that the gods, unlike themselves, had white skin, shining weapons, and - most importantly - a beard, which does not grow on Indians. When two dozen unshaven Spaniards in steel armor and on horses appeared near Cusco, the population fell prostrate before them, and the days of the Inca Empire were numbered.
The Spaniards methodically destroyed all Inca temples and fortresses, and for practicality, melted gold from sculptures into ingots to make it easier to transport to Europe. As of today, of all Inca cities, only Machu Picchu has survived, and only because the Spaniards simply did not find it. And it's no wonder: getting to Machu Picchu even today is no walk in the park. To get there, you first have to 'drive' for an hour and a half by car, then the same amount of time on an antiquated train from which every minute you want to jump out and push from behind with all your might, then take a bus up to the altitude of a condor's flight, and from there, nevertheless, still tramp on foot uphill for quite a while, gasping from lack of oxygen at that wild altitude. I can imagine how the Incas themselves cursed Machu Picchu, who had no bus, no train, not even such a primitive one. Only half a century after it was built, people left here forever for unknown reasons. Now you can't say why such a ghost city was built at all. I personally think it was something like a country cottage for the local monarch - along the lines of Versailles, Peterhof, or Windsor. The sovereign died, and his successor did not like it here, so the place was abandoned.
But in Machu Picchu live wild chinchillas, which an experienced eye can spot between the stones of old temples. Chinchillas, thank God, are forbidden to be trapped, otherwise they would share the fate of guinea pigs, which in Peru are considered an exquisite delicacy. Personally, I felt uneasy when a plate was placed in front of me with a roasted guinea pig, just as it is, with four legs. The taste was okay, like chicken, but every second you remember that you are eating a rodent, and it makes your stomach feel incredibly sad. However, I was somewhat consoled when I saw an icon of the 'Last Supper' in the cathedral of Cusco: Jesus and the apostles sat around a table on which were tastefully arranged bananas, papaya, pineapple, and - in the very center - a roasted guinea pig. Since the heroes of the Gospel consumed this dish...
In the vicinity of Cusco are the most colorful monuments of the Inca civilization - those that the Spaniards did not have time to destroy. Or, more precisely, could not physically - many of the temples are built from huge boulders that are not so easy to break apart. Among them is the Sacsayhuaman temple, with the working name Sexy woman. And again, no one can adequately explain for what purpose, when, and by whom this stone giant was built. The current descendants of the Incas, the Quechua tribes, do little to help in these searches.
The Indians are nice, good-natured people of short stature. In any life situation, they spin. While walking, while eating, just sitting on a bench or on the ground; men and women, children and the elderly - in any case, they will have a spinning wheel in their hand, with which they produce textiles. The result is a permanent crisis of overproduction: at every step in Peruvian cities, you can see piles of woolen items in cheerful colors, enough to clothe the entire globe in colorful ear-flap hats, woolen gloves with and without fingers, and sweaters with a picture of a running llama. The llama and its varieties are the source of such an abundance of goods, and the eternal cold of the high-altitude regions of Peru (near Lake Titicaca – 3,800 m, in Machu Picchu – 3,400 m) guarantees demand from frostbitten tourists from the USA and Europe.
On an island in the middle of Lake Titicaca, there were especially many hats, and some of them were very skillfully made. However, when we tried to buy one for our collection, they charged us an unthinkable price for Peru - the Indians do not know how to bargain at all.
'Forty dollars,' the merchant told us those two words he knew in English. 'Thirty, and not a penny more,' I replied automatically.
It ended with him taking off his own hat - exactly the same - and selling it to us for thirty. I still haven't figured out the trick, but I discovered that it's very easy to work with the Indians: if you like a hat, you can just go up, take it off his head, silently hand over 10-15 local currency units, and leave. Since that day, I have done just that. Everyone is satisfied.
They also sell picturesque figurines of local gods, stuffed armadillos (a symbol of happiness, though they smell awful), and stone axes. With the axes, by the way, be careful: most are actually ceramic. A sharp unexpected blow to the seller's head helps determine the material.
The Quechua Indians still wear national clothing - embroidered belts made of llama wool and women's hair, colorful headdresses, skirts of screamingly provocative colors - and therefore make an ideal subject for photographs. Many of them make a living by collecting small coins for the right to be photographed. But no one insists on payment. It's amazing how attitudes toward tourist cameras vary around the world. In East Africa, for example, people flee from the lens with terrifying trumpet cries. The Tuareg of the Sahara draw a knife and go on the attack, and the blacks of Mali loudly protest and demand royalties, confident that their photo will definitely appear on the cover of the next edition of Lonely Planet. The Peruvian Indian only smiles sadly in response to the click of the camera - he is accustomed to the inevitable.
Where a camera will definitely come in handy is in the Amazon jungle. Tourists usually go to the Manu or Tambopata reserves - both located near Cusco. And yet, even there you have to travel by connecting transport: first 40 minutes by plane, then an hour by car through the jungle, where iguanas, Indians and wild boars cross the road, and then another couple of hours by boat along the river, where caimans see you off with languid looks.
Life in the jungle camp has relative comfort - there is no electricity, no mobile communication, but there is hot water and sewage. Animals roam abundantly around the camp in search of food, which could easily be you yourself. Troops of monkeys move nearby along the tall trees, and colorful birds mimic each other's voices. Mosquito nets are hung in the huts, and next to the bed hangs a whistle with an optimistic sign underneath: "If you see wild animals in the room, whistle with all your might." If you have time, of course.
In the evening I left the bungalow to walk around the grounds and saw a dog on the path. I looked closer - it didn't seem like a dog. I came closer - definitely: a huge rodent, sitting, eating. "Agouti," our naturalist guide told us, capable of distinguishing a subspecies of insect from a mile away, "The main thing is that it doesn't bite."
At night the forest fills with sounds to such an extent that it seems like you went to sleep on a construction site in the midst of assembly work. All 30 million species of insects living in the rainforest scream, grind, squeak and chirp in different voices. The tree frog makes powerful chainsaw sounds, incompatible with its delicate appearance. The huge bamboo rat screams as if someone is driving piles by the stream - perhaps that's exactly what it's doing, you can't go near it to see. Reptiles, mammals and birds of the most bizarre shapes and species come out to hunt each other.
The forest is surprisingly densely populated. Anacondas live here ("They say they grow up to eleven meters," the guide told us. "Although I haven't seen such ones, maximum nine meters, small fry"), giant otters, tapirs, armadillos and jaguars. Nobody has seen the latter - or rather, nobody has seen anyone who saw it (the last time in their life).
The daily routine of the local tourist is trivial and simple: 1) at dawn a hike through the forest to a lake teeming with exotic birds and piranhas; 2) lunch in a state of trance from what was seen; 3) an excursion through the forest in search of a snake (lucky if unsuccessful); 4) a boat ride to see alligator nests. Dinner is available for those who return from the walk, but has never come in handy yet.
In the evenings, families of capybaras come to the river banks to drink, and early in the morning parrots fly here - they lick clay so that the alkali neutralizes the poisonous seeds they greedily ate the previous day. Swarms of parrots of all colors of the rainbow - and there is no escape from them. And every new minute spent here, in the humid equatorial forest, where sunlight is invisible under the multi-meter layer of vines, trees and palms, makes a person marvel at the diversity of the world that they, it turns out, do not know at all.
Here grow fig trees with a girth of ten arms. Every year new animal species previously unknown to science are discovered here. And it turns out, for example, that if the rest of the world has 2 million species of insects, then in the equatorial forest there are 30 million. And that's not just insects! New tribes speaking unknown languages are still being discovered in the depths of the Amazon, and the entire scientific world wonders how there are no numerals in the language of the Mura-Pirahã tribe.
What did we see in these few days? A drop in the ocean. We only walked along the edge of the reserve, along beaten paths, not daring to set even one foot into the thick of the real, virgin forests. And so, although I was terribly tired in Peru from altitude changes, the ineptitude of local guides, the discomfort of hotels and hours of turbulent flights, inside me curiosity and a desire to go further still burn. To move up the Amazon. To find another lost city among the snowy peaks. To land in a floating village on Lake Titicaca. To find out what South America is like.