The subtle art of doing laundry while mobile
There are only so many times one can make a sad sock soup in the bathroom sink.
Every country has its quirks, but my goodness Peru is a noisy one. I’ve just walked the 15-minute stretch from the Huacachina desert oasis to our hostel (where this week’s newsletter comes to you from) and been honked at by every car, van and tuk-tuk that went past. One effectively curb-crawled me shouting “gringa!” until I told him to go away.
It’s not a pervy thing – it would be the same if Dave were with me, too – they’re all taxis (I think I mentioned previously that ever other person in Peru is a taxi driver?) and it’s their way of checking to see if I want a lift. But it’s very annoying, nonetheless.
We’ve been in Peru a month now and I’m still learning to adjust to the higher decibel that people seem to exist at here. Everyone shouts. Nobody owns a pair of headphones. In Paracas, we were woken up before 6am every morning when a truck playing music came around, visiting all the streets in turn like a Victorian alarm clock. Even the refuse collection trucks in Arequipa this week played music – specifically, “Under the Sea” from the Little Mermaid, which I found quite confusing. Is the underlying message that all the rubbish collected is going to end up in the sea?!
If you go into any bus station in Peru, you’ll be met with a cacophony of ticket sellers shouting out destinations – as if someone might walk in without already knowing where they want to go, then feel inspired by the voice that shouts the loudest. Driving (or worse, being a passenger) triggers a whole new level of adrenaline: seven-way junctions without traffic lights, right of way determined by who beeps their horn the longest. We once watched a cyclist attempting a hill, honked at the whole way by the line of cars behind him – as if that could make him hurry up, somehow.
I might sound grumpy, but I do think the power of quiet is underrated. (But then, I am someone who once voluntarily went on a five-day silent retreat). I quite respect the market sellers, however: rather than shout to flog their wares all day long, most have a pre-recorded sell that they play at full volume on loop through a megaphone. As do lots of beggars, too. Because why waste your voice more than once?
There are other quirks here that provide a constant reminder that we are very much tourists – unlike the other countries we’ve visited on this trip (Brazil, Uruguay, Chile and Argentina) where sometimes we could blend in or, I like to think, sometimes, be mistaken for a local. The most blatant is when getting on a bus: twice, the bus conductor has produced a 90’s-style camcorder to film us getting on board, and most recently we were filmed without warning once sitting in our designated seats.
Presumably it’s to provide legal evidence that we were there, should we go missing or get murdered. Or if the bus crashes and they need to identify our bodies. Ha. Ha ha ha. For better or worse, Peru has its tourism game down to an art. It’s just a shame that nothing about it is particularly relaxing or reassuring.
Some more heavy-hitting tourism happened this week, buckle up. We began the week in Puno, by Lake Titicaca, the highest altitude lake in the world at 3,812 metres above sea level. Puno is a funny little town with about 50 restaurants, of which 49 appear to serve only pizza (no seriously – it’s weird). On our second night we found Mojsa, a converted old pharmacy in the middle of the town square, with a view of the cathedral. It had a bar on the ground floor and fairly fancy restaurant on the second, serving cocktails and beautifully presented dishes like grilled trout and alpaca steak. The cheesecake was incredible… they also serve roasted guinea pig, but no we still didn’t order it.
On Monday we took a boat tour, visiting the Uros and Taquile islands around the Peruvian side of the lake. Sitting on the border between Peru and Bolivia, Lake Titicaca is one of the most famous spots to visit in Peru, and possibly all of South America: the islands are still inhabited by indigenous communities who have been there for centuries. While Taquile is a natural island with Quechua inhabitants, the Uros community live on artificial floating islands made out of reeds. I’d heard from friends that the lake is beautiful, but when we read up on the island tours I started to get cold feet. Specifically, the Rough Guides book we carry was pretty critical about some of them – at the time of writing, it said, many tours were exploitative and not very respectful to the island communities that live there.
What to do? We’d come all this way to see the lake, but I certainly didn’t want to go ahead with a tour if they were unethical. I contacted our trusty Machu Picchu tour leader and yogi spiritual guide, our Peruvian papito: Nilo. And he said it was fine. So we just went with it.
I have to say, I was really impressed with our tour agency, Titicaca Travel Peru. Nilo suggested we try any of the operators around the main square, and this one had very good reviews on Google. The tour leader, Victor, was young and knowledgeable about the different customs of the islanders, and it was clear once we docked at one of the floating Uros islands that he had a personal rapport with the families living there.
The tour agencies don’t visit the same islands every day - tours are organised so that one willing native family welcomes visitors a couple of times a month each. This was reassuring, and although our tour group more than doubled the population of the small Uros island we visited, it didn’t feel that we were overwhelming them. Their president took us on a boat ride around their area, showing us the naturally growing reeds that form everything from firewood, to housing, to the boat we sat on and of course, the actual island they live on.
While he steered, his daughter – a small and steely-eyed girl of about eight – started braiding my hair (and very expertly, too). They certainly didn’t seem exploited or unhappy with our presence there, especially when we started buying some of their embroidery and other hand-made souvenirs. Overall it was a very wholesome and peaceful experience, and I’m glad we weren’t put off by the Rough Guide’s warnings.
I completely forgot to mention that we climbed Vinicunca, otherwise known as the “Rainbow Mountain” while we were in Cusco last week. It was hilarious for several reasons: first, we always knew that the reason it is so popular as a tourist activity is because it’s very Instagrammable. And so the crowds were unavoidable.
Happily, this meant there were plenty of llamas (and their owners) dressed up for the occasion, ready for their photoshoots up the top of the mountain. See also: well dressed horses (and their owners) ready to catch any fallen tourists for whom the 5,036m altitude became all too much.
We took a tour bus most of the way up the mountain range, then walked the final 45-ish minutes to the summit – that tends to be the done thing, given that the summit is 5,036m above sea level, making it hard work for even the fittest hikers.
Staggering uphill, Dave and I both felt as if we were drunk – as well as out of breath – stumbling and not quite in control of our heads or limbs thanks to the lack of oxygen up at that height. It felt mildly ridiculous, following the stream of panting tourists up the path to the summit, all while locals pottered up and down quite happily with their horses and coca-leaf tea to sell as a remedy. It crossed my mind that when Dave and I visited the ALMA observatory in Chile, we were made to carry oxygen tanks by law from 3,500 metres and higher. No such rules in Peru… I wondered how many gringos collapsed up here on the Rainbow Mountain in pursuit of the perfect photo.
Getting to the top felt exhilarating, although annoyingly I developed a headache worthy of any bad hangover later that evening when back down in Cusco – another common symptom after exposure to very high altitudes – and so our celebratory drink was short-lived and I collapsed into bed soon after. Was the trip worth it? Absolutely yes, but I don’t feel the need to do it again.
Another week, another tragic confession: I bloody love doing laundry. I love throwing it in, I love getting it out. I love the sense of calm and restoration it instills in me. I love the sounds a washing machine makes. Back in my normal, pre-travel life, I worked from home most days, and if I was stuck for concentration I would stick on a load of washing and instantly feel soothed.
Don’t go mistaking me for some domestic homemaker – when it comes to general cooking and cleaning duties I am nothing but slovenly. But for me, the background noise of the wash and rinse cycle is the original ASMR. It works every time.
Of course, backpacking makes domesticity trickier. Dave and I each have enough clothes with us to last a couple of weeks, more or less. Then it’s usually time to find a laundrette – or better still, filter our Airbnb searches for places that include a washer. For the in-between times, there’s our trusty Popeye soap: a Latin American brand of laundry detergent you can buy in a single, solid bar. But, as I’ve reflected before, there are only so many times one can make a sad sock soup in a bathroom sink before it’s time to seek out the real deal.
While travelling, laundry days come with a whole new layer of satisfaction. When checking into an Airbnb with a washing machine, I know things are about to get seriously calm and organised. I might unpack my entire backpack and reassess its contents. In all likelihood, this is a place we're probably going to have a night in and cook vegetables, too. The whole experience is like sticking on a clay face mask (which I will probably also do on a night like laundry night) – it’s a big old reset for my chaotic travelling mind.
Then there's the fun of where to hang it all (balanced over open drawers, over doors and chairs). How many loads to sneak in if it's a shared space and / or the Airbnb owner lives next door and I could be monitoring our usage. Some of my best travel laundry memories (thanks for asking) include the first apartment we stayed in in Rio (outdoor hanging space AND a bottle of Vanish stain removal powder for the taking). Some of the worst have tended to involve misjudged drying conditions (whatever led us to think our clothes would dry during a day of storms in Ilha Grande? We were dreaming, I tell you).
I've learned to approach our laundry strategy based on a range of factors. High altitude and desert conditions? You'd be crazy not to stick a load on. Humidity and a short stopover? Those damp pants are gonna stay musty for days in the bottom of your backpack. Above anything else, there's something about gathering up a freshly clean and dried load of laundry that makes me feel immediately human again when nothing else about our lives is very stable or ordinary.
I really loved the apartment we stayed in in Arequipa this week. Yes, it had a washing machine and a roof terrace with a very pleasant laundry-drying set up, but it was more than that. I’m sure it helped that it was the first place we’d stayed in a while with a reliably warm shower, but it was also comfortable – like a home someone might live in and not just fit out with the generic Ikea-style furniture that tends to be uniform of Airbnbs world-over.
We were there for four nights and by the end of it I was sad to leave. Then I remembered reading an article somewhere, a while ago – probably one of those vacuous home interiors pieces I tend to get pushed on my phone’s news feed, with headlines like “How to Make Your House Feel Like a Hotel” or “Five Home Improvements to Prolong That Holiday Feeling”… you get the idea. Anyway, this article suggested taking stock of the things you appreciate when staying in a nice hotel room or apartment, and consider how you might incorporate them into your REAL life home. And voila: your life is a holiday. Or something like that.
I thought I’d give it a go.
Really big bed. Even mentioned in Airbnb listing as a “super king” size, which I thought only existed in North America.
Home hack: Could fit a regular kingsize bed if got rid of everything else in bedroom (ie, bedside tables, lamp, floordrobe). Bed would have to be open at the foot (ie, no sleigh bed) as this would be our main access point, along with bedroom window.Soft kitchen lighting – with multiple brightness options.
Home hack: Already halfway there, as spotlights in flat at home almost all broken and impossible to replace.Lots of natural light, too – helped by existence of an atrium in-between bedroom and kitchen.
Home hack: Wash windows more than once every two years.Upright washing machine – ie, the barrel faces UP and you simply throw the laundry in the top. This is a Thing in Latin America and I can’t believe we’ve all been crouching down on the floor like savages to use our sideways European washing barrel for so long.
Home hack: Could simply turn washing machine on its side. But then where would the microwave, slow cooker, chopping board and washing up liquid go if not all balanced on top of washing machine cabinet?…And roof terrace – great for drying laundry / hanging out on.
Home hack: I mean, there is access to our flat roof, but my laundry would certainly end up in Essex on a windy day.Second bathroom – often said to be the key to a happy relationship.
Home hack: Dave has volunteered to start using the balcony at home instead.View of a volcano – majestic El Misti viewable from living room window.
Home hack: Tricky to replicate, but I have seen multiple people setting fire to things in the street in Stratford, which is almost the same.
From the (not so ancient) archives
I’m afraid this is not the first time that laundry has inspired my writing on this trip. Here’s a post I thought I’d share from the days before Pells Post found its way towards newsletter format: In search of a swim. On laundry, rivers, and a failure to make Friends.
Travel bits and tips from this week
In Puno, Dave and I stayed in the Hotel TerraMistica, a very lovely and affordable hotel, which came with breakfast and a 24-hour tea station. Yes, we’re still weaning ourselves off the luxury experienced during the Zlata and Greg holiday takeover.
We took a boat tour with Titicaca Travel Peru for about £16 each and it was well worth it.
We loved Mojsa bar and restaurant in the main square. It was almost entirely populated by gringos, which always feels like a shame – but maybe Puno’s restaurateurs should take the hint and diversify away from pizza.
From Puno it was on to the famous white stone city of Arequipa, which is generally just a great place to potter around in. We stayed in this Airbnb, which was lovelier than the photos suggest.
…And had amazing Mexican food at Tacos y Tequilas.
Also a very fun night out in Greita bar, which has delicious fancy wines and craft beer.
We followed that up with what might have been the best burger I’ve ever eaten at Tanta restaurant down the road. But then again, I was three wines in and starving.
The Museo Santuarios Andinos was fun to visit, as was the Recoleta Monastery and Museum. I pretended to ring a very big bell at the top of the church tower but chickened out in case the town went into earthquake emergency mode.