Where High Gets Low.
Peru has always struck me as a totally whacked out place for its extravagant fusion of cultures. But the city of Chiclayo has taken it to another level. In an area of the arid northern coast once ruled by the Moche (a culture known for its sublime ceramic sculpture), you can feast your eyes on a city park stuffed full of faux classical statuary made of the finest plaster fiberglass money can buy.
On a sort of related note: This is where my family hails from. Ciudad heroica, indeed.
Over the weekend, we took an epic 10-hour bus ride from the northern highland city of Cajamarca, to the Utcubamba Valley town of Leimebamba. (See a map here.) The most dramatic portion of the trip is the journey across the Río Marañón Valley. The fun begins when you come up over a high mountain pass and plunge into the valley, which is vertiginously steep — with mountains that rise almost 10,000 feet.
For the bus, it’s switchbacks all the way down. And then switchbacks all the way back up. Over the course of the ride, the climate changes repeatedly, from cutting highland chill to tropical heat to cooler but steamier cloud forest. The best part: It’s one-lane all the way, even though the road has two-way traffic. At times, the road is so narrow, it looks like a mirage. And naturally, there’s nothing in the way of barriers between the edge of the barreling bus and the precipice below. It is all kinds of freaky-gorgeous.
More pix and video after the jump.
Continue reading ‘Adventures in white-knuckle Andean bus rides.’
In Cajamarca, Peru. The city where Atahualpa, the last sovereign leader of the Incas, would meet his death at the hands of the Spaniards after being ransomed for a room full of gold and silver. (Photos by C-M.)
Open house, L.A. (Photo by C-M.)
In April, Celso and I drove cross-country, from Los Angeles to New York. We did the southern route, using mostly back roads: through the Southwest, into Louisiana and the Florida panhandle, before turning north and hitting the Blue Ridge Parkway into Pennsylvania. We shacked up with friends or stayed at the Motel 6. Along the way, we hung out with reality TV producers, small-town cops, artists, oil men and retired military. The whole trip took three and a half weeks.
Besides the economy, one of the favorite subjects of conversation — regardless of who we were with — was real estate. In each community, whether it was middle-of-nowhere Arizona or metro Atlanta, we’d hear about which homes were selling, and more likely, which ones weren’t. We got the lowdown on floreclosures, on the neighbors who had gotten in over their heads, on districts that were emptying out and others that were filling up. On the Gulf Coast, we talked about what Ivan and Katrina and Rita and those other first-name basis storms had done to the market. (This was pre-BP spill.) In Alabama, we stayed with friends who had been foreclosed.
In so many ways, this obsession of middle class American life imbued much of our trip. In L.A., we visited open houses, in an old African-American enclave from the ’60s that is being transformed by Hollywood types. We went on dozens of personal home tours, respectfully attending to discussions about wall paint and roofing. And in New Mexico, we hiked around a gated subdivision that channeled a rugged, mountain aesthetic. The area was wooded, the houses nestled deep into the forest and the roads were winding. But the rustic look was engineered. The place was governed by a strident homeowners association that, among other things, forbade the installation of above-ground propane tanks for cosmetic reasons. Barbecues as big as a storage shed, however, were a-okay.
Throughout the country, whether in blue states or in red, in burned-out refinery towns or genteel beach communities, the one subject that seemed to bring everyone together was property — it’s acquisition, it’s maintenance and it’s display.
Politics may tear us apart, but real estate brings us together.
Look at what San Suzie found: The above is a screen grab of the spa menu at a Miami hotel where it is possible to do yoga with your dog. We are in awe.
The last time I was in L.A. I got an impromptu tour of L.A.’s trendiest tanning salon, an expansive, pseudo-industrial spot in the heart of Beverly Hills, where Posh and Becks and Jennifer Aniston and lots of names I don’t recognize, all pile in to get sprayed and get baked. (Not good baked. Baked baked — as in laying around inside light pods cultivating unnatural bronze sheens.)
Needless to say, I was rapt. I also stole a pile of packages filled with disposable tanning underwear. Which I’m wearing right now.
Inlet Beach. (All photos by C-M.)
In the course of some of my magazine assignments, I’ve gotten to know the Florida panhandle — which has made the spill in the Gulf feel like a personal affront. This isn’t some abstract environmental disaster in my mind. I’ve met, eaten, drank and hung out with the folks who live and work in this area. I feel at a loss on how I might do anything constructive, so I thought I might pay photographic tribute to an area that has shown me plenty of hospitality and some very good times.
Continue reading ‘Photo Diary:The Florida panhandle, pre-spill.’
This spitting camelid could be yours. All yours.
If you were into those posts I did about surreal sights in Lima and scrumptious Peruvian cooking, all of that hard-earned research (and much, much more) is now available in guidebook form from Lonely Planet. (I helped co-author this puppy, so please buuuuy it!) I do have one extra copy on-hand, however, for a single lucky ceviche-muncher. Leave a comment below and all my Lima fine-dining secrets could be yours gratis.
Thanks for reading!
C.
