Don’t let the name of this cozy little artisan café scare you away. The Ayahuasca Cafe is named after the ayahuasca vine, a vision-inducing shamanic medicine plant of the South American jungle that has the very real ability to heal people on a mental, spiritual and sometimes, a physical level. The ayahuasca brew itself tastes horrible, though,  and you’d never want to associate it with food. I must admit when I first saw the name of the café, I thought about the ayahuasca brew and immediately lost my appetite. But no worries, the food at The Ayahuasca Café is home-cooked, healthy and incredibly tasty. After one meal at this café, all you’ll think about is how yummy the food is.

This café is the perfect fusion of everything enjoyable about Pisac – fresh, local food, truly hand crafted art, (unlike many of the factory-made things being sold by those calling themselves ‘artesanos’ in the market), a chill atmosphere and a very welcoming, gringo-friendly attitude. Although the owners speak only Spanish, the place is decorated inside and out with thick, gorgeous carved wood signage displaying nearly perfect English. The wide-ranging menu is offered in both Spanish and English. A lot of establishments in Peru use bad English on signage and in printed menus, but the professionalism and attention to detail of The Ayahuasca Café doesn’t end here.

The place is tiny; the front room only has four tables, a couple of small couches and a coffee table. For the weary traveler, this place is chill-out heaven, offering a respite from the bright sun. Jazzy music with an international flair plays on the speaker system. Daniela, the owner, always asks me if the music ¨is good for inspiration¨ when I sit for hours at one of the little tables, writing in my journal.

The interior of the restaurant doorway is hand-painted with a colorful bird pattern that is reminiscent of Inka designs. In Peru, it can be difficult to find a perfectly clean, comfortable and visually pleasing eatery with good service, so this gem is not to be overlooked. Although not advertised, if you have an international phone card, they might allow you to use their nice cordless phone for free if you’re a customer. When not taking an order or cooking food, the owners are busy making art while hanging out in the back room.

The walls are a warm yellow color and decorated with unique items for sale – Shipibo ayahuasca tapestries in all sizes, visionary ayahuasca prints and paintings made by local shamans and a prominent Artesano display in the middle of the room is loaded down with local hand-made jewelry, carved items and small sculptures. From carved poles hangs a display of t-shirts painted with a colorful array of trippy little dwarves. One window is loaded with hunks of natural incense of copal, myrrh and palo santo.

The café con leche is rich and piping hot, the juices freshly squeezed and/or blended and the burgers are delectable, served on a quarter round of fresh, wood-fired whole wheat bread, and dripping with mashed avocado. From vegetarian specialties like spaghetti pesto to the sweet pankekes (crepes) offered for dessert, the menu has something enjoyable for everyone. After your meal, if you want to leave your giant backpack behind, this is a safe spot to do so. The owners will gladly hold your pack while you make the roughly 2-hour arduous climb up the mountain to visit the spectacular Pisac ruins.

The nicest thing about this café is that although it definitely has a new-age shamanic vibe, the proprietors never bring it up – unless a customer asks. This laid-back attitude is refreshing and welcoming – mostly everything in Peru is too aggressive with sales pitches. The prices are very fair (about $3 US for a three course meal with a hot drink) and the portions generous – most gringo friendly places overcharge for less than spectacular food.

Matt and I decided to go to Mama Chicken´s house last night to find out what the deal is with the gringo pricing on their fabulous chicken . . . and . . . my favorite restaurant in Pisac has been redeemed, I´m happy to say.

Apparently, they do have a 4.50 sole portion of chicken – it´s an 1/8 of a chicken, a smaller portion of fries and a smaller bowl of (truly) yummy chicken foot soup. Ah, no matter that all this time they never asked us which portion we wanted. Every time we walked in, they just handed us the biggest plate they had.

Now we know. And I suppose I didn´t completely understand my new friend. She meant an 1/8 of a chicken for 4.50 soles. The smaller portion is so much better anyway! So, go to Las Gamelas Polloria for the best chicken in Pisac. They may not have a menu, but they do have two different sized portions. Now you know!

Every week, some Latin American paper runs another story about how somewhere in some South American country, some bus falls off a cliff. The bus I was on yesterday came really close to rolling backwards off a cliff and it was scary as hell. And the strangest part of the whole story happened right before I left to go to town, as I said good-bye to Matt.

¨I´ll see you later,¨ he said.

And from out of nowhere, the thought came, ¨What if I were to die today?¨ I shook the thought away, kissed my love good-bye and got on the bus to Cusco.

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It happened on my way home. As the bus crossed the high mountain pass just east of Cusco, heading back toward Pisac, the Peruvian police randomly stopped us and asked the driver for his credentials. I think it was just a routine check, nothing serious. Then the driver and the bus conductor (the guy who takes the money) both got off the bus to talk to the police. After a minute or two, the bus began to slowly . . . slowly, then a little faster . . . roll backwards!

Everyone on the bus noticed at the same time. Everyone looked up and kind of sucked in their breath with a quiet, collective panic at the exact same moment - because we were rolling backwards toward the edge of a sheer cliff with no driver in the driver´s seat!!

Forty sets of eyes instantly shifted to the person closest to the driver´s seat – a traditionally dressed Quechua woman who was loaded down with a manta full of something strapped to her back. She couldn´t move very easily.  

She moved like lightning, despite her heavy load, toward the driver´s seat with her hands in front of her, as though she were going to dive under the dash and try to find the brakes with her hands. Her body language told me that she didn´t know how to drive a car. My stomach began to sink. Everyone was quiet. No one had thought to scream just yet.

Then, from out of nowhere, the driver came running and jumped onto the bus and set the parking brake. It happened just that fast. One minute everyone on that bus was fucked and the very next second everything was suddenly OK again. Life´s like that sometimes.

Luckily for us, there was a separate driver´s door on the left side of the bus, so he could just hop in and not be blocked by the crush of riders standing in the front of the bus. Luckily for us, the bus hadn´t gathered so much momentum that the driver couldn´t still jump on. Luckily for us, Peruvian bus drivers are accustomed to jumping on and off a moving bus. Lucky for us.

When the bus seats get filled here in Peru, they keep on cramming the people in anyway. They’ll cram people in all the way up to the bus door. And the most annoying part about it is that about five seats back, the bus remains completely clear and open in the ailse. Normally, if I were one of those standing, I would simply push my way to the back of the bus so that I could be as far away as possible from the front door, not to mention the front windshield with no hand holds.

But if you have to get off the bus at an earlier stop than the bus station, your best bet is to stick close to the front. Just the other day, Matt and I had to ride for ten harrowing minutes in the front of the bus from Coya to Pisac. It was just a short ride. The bus was crammed, but they waived us on anyway. The conductor accidentally closed the bus door on Matt’s fingers. Neither of us had anywhere to hang on except the emergency exit in the ceiling of the bus.

All I could see besides the driver and the pavement in front of me was the bus speedometer, which was broken. The driver was flooring it too, passing other busses and cars and he had to squeal to a stop at one point to avoid hitting a dog. I felt like a monkey with my arms all stretched out, short as I am. I held onto the cracks in the emergency exit for dear life.

The bus came to a stop in Pisac. I was one of the first in line to get off. Just then I looked one last time into the bus windshield. Hanging from the rearview mirror was a little stuffed monkey, arms stretched above his head, just like mine had been.

 . . . . all this time we’ve been paying nine soles for a quarter of chicken and fries. It’s good, but it always seemed a bit expensive to me.

 The other day a girl was walking down the road, pushing a bicycle cart. Just as I was about to pass her, we were coming upon a slight incline. I grabbed the back of the bicycle and began to help her push the bike and cart across the little footbridge and up the hill. I wasn’t paying attention and my foot went through the slats of the footbridge and I fell all the way up to my knee, hand still on bicycle.

Luckily, I didn’t get hurt at all. The entire situation was funny to me and I couldn’t stop laughing as I stood there up to my thigh caught in the footbridge. I couldn’t stop laughing as I climbed out and I certainly couldn’t stop laughing as the girl and I finished pushing the bike up the hill.

She stopped to make sure that I was all right. We ended up talking (even though we barely could understand one another) and walking all the way to Pisac. She’s a nice girl. We sort of became friends on our walk. We got to talking about restaurants.

I told her that my favorite was Las Gamelas Polloria. Her eyes lit up. She said in spanish, “Isn’t it a great place? And only 4.50 soles for a quarter chicken!”

Wait. Just. One. Minute. They always charge us nine soles for a quarter chicken. Ah! Gringo pricing has struck once again! I’ll go back, for sure, but this time, I’ll do some more bargaining, even if I need to take it up with Mama Chicken herself . . . .

I knew it when I stepped out of my favorite quiet cafe and counted fourteen tour busses lined up on the cobblestone street of the Pisac square. Any doubts I had were immediately erased from my mind when I saw a gaggle of blonde girls run past me, loaded down with plastic shopping bags. One of the trio squealed, ¨So, like, where´s our bus anyway?¨

The rainy season in Peru is officially over. Peru has two seasons only – wet and dry.  Most books you read and people you talk to will tell you to come to Peru only during the dry season. Well, here´s my insider tip: I highly recommend visiting Peru during the wet season, mostly because the ´wet season´ isn´t really all that wet.

When I arrived in late December, everyone I knew in Pisac talked about how dismal the wet season was going to be. That´s when I also found out that everyone I knew planned their vacations from January through March – all the local bed and breakfast owners, the cafe owner and even alot of the shamans. As far as people I know, it´s been sort of a ghost town around here but I´ve still enjoyed this place immensely, even though I´ve missed my local friends. The cafes were still open, as were the hostels and don´t worry – there´s always a multitude of shamanic medicine available here.

The friend I´m house-sitting for comes back in two weeks. The new school year began for the children of the Andes yesterday morning – many of them wore uniforms and shiny dress shoes. The epic water balloon fights of school vacation have officially come to an end. And – no matter what the media says about the economy – the tourists are back in force.

January and February were not all that rainy here in the Sacred Valley. Most days began a little overcast and misty, but after a couple of hours, it would be all blue skies and puffy white clouds. The mud dries quickly around here. I only wore mud boots once during the entire rainy season. There was only one night where it rained all night long and maybe two days of solid rain – every other bit of moisture was intermittent and even enjoyable.

The best part about visiting Peru during the rainy season is the lack of other tourists. During the months of January and February, it seemed as though I spied a fair number of khaki-covered, lens-toting tourists. But now that March has arrived and the tour busses are backed up down the narrow streets, choking everyone with noxious exhaust fumes, I can tell that the droves of sightseers have officially arrived.

Honestly, I´ve begun to avoid the market even more than normal. All the restaurants are packed. The local B&B´s are over-booked. My friend Rosie says that the American tourists are the ones who spend the money. And so, in a way, I´m glad that the dry season has returned. The people I know who have businesses here are about to flourish once again and the vendors who sell their wares will once again have buyers.

But I feel so very lucky that I´ve had a chance to experience this beautiful place when it was just a little quieter than normal . . . !

I ducked inside the first place I found that had a bag of potato chips when I arrived into town. Potato chips in Peru are made from Peruvian potatoes, and even though they are made by Frito-Lay, they taste sooo much better than their American counterparts. I knew better than to get an entire bag because I’d be tempted to eat them all.

I grabbed the .50 centamos bag. I knew it was .50 centamos because that was the price printed on the bag. This is a rarity as nothing in Peru is ever marked with a suggested retail price because the local economy is run by way of bargaining.

I handed a one-sole coin for my chips to the traditional Qechua lady behind the counter. She handed me back .30 centamos.

I held up the potato chip bag with the printed price of .50 centamos and pointed to it. She gave me the correct change.

“Olvido,” the lady behind the counter said dryly. “I forgot.”

I don’t think she meant any malice, but I also don’t think she forgot. It’s just the way of the typical Peruvian vendor. They try to make a little more here and there where and when they can from the hordes of gringos who come tromping all up and down and through their homeland. I don’t mind if sometimes I get charged “gringo prices,” but I do try to be aware of scams and price gouging, however small it may be. It’s always my goal to pay the normal, local price for things, or as close to it as a gringo possibly can.

It’s up to the individual to cultivate the ability to bargain effectively, gringo or not, and when in this area you have to be alert. It’s not unusual in Peru for receipts to have addition errors, so it’s a good idea to double check the addition on hand written receipts. Every time I’ve found one, the error has always been in favor of the vendor. If you find an error on your bill, be nice and point out the error. It very well could have been an honest mistake.

Or not.

Matt and I sat on the bus in Urubamba, waiting for it to fill up, so we could go back to our little town of Pisac. A little girl of about five walked onto the bus and ignoring everyone else, she shoved a plastic bag in our faces and said simply, ¨Rocoto relleno?¨

A lot of the time, we ignore vendors for the simple fact that in Peru, every second of the day, at every bus or collectivo stop, on every streetcorner and in every way one could imagine, there are endless people trying to sell something – food, handicrafts, CD´s, juices, massages – the list goes on and on. But that evening was different. Perhaps it was the blank look on the dirty child´s face. Maybe it was her simple insistence. Hell, maybe we were just hungry after the long day of bus rides and hiking.

We paid the two soles, expecting her to just pull one rocoto out of the bulging plastic bag. Matt pressed the coin into her hand and without any further emotion, she thrust the entire bag toward him, nearly dropping it his lap and quickly disappeared. I´d been wanting to try rocoto relleno for some time, but had no idea what I was missing!

We opened the bag. Inside were two rellenos and three small boiled potatoes – a great deal! Rocoto relleno, a classic Peruvian dish whose origins come from the town of Arequipa,  is a type of pepper that grows in South America and is usually stuffed with meat and vegetables. No, it doesn´t taste anything like an American stuffed bell pepper, not even close. It´s infinitely better!

The relleno batter (my favorite part) was rich and tasted sort of cheese-like. They were filled with a savory mixture of meat and spices. We polished off the entire contents in the bag in under five minutes and decided immediately to get second serving.

Thus began our obsession with rocoto relleno. It seems like now the entire rocoto relleno world has opened up to us. That next week, all the sole menu places in Pisac were serving them, it seemed. We tried them all.

At the market that Sunday, we went from tent to tent, trying the rocoto relleno of every mamacita in sight. After eating four in a row, we finally headed home. Oddly enough, in response to the tourist palate, the ladies of the market have begun to only serve vegetarian versions of this Peruvian carne classic.

I still haven´t found a rocoto relleno that was as rich and savory and classic as the one that little girl served to us, and certainly not one as economical. But, I certainly plan to keep looking! And I plan to continue to rocoto relleno tours, especially anytime I see a row of vendors all selling them. That´s my favorite way to sample them – four in an hour!

Because I just like this picture . . . .

As I walked into one of my usual three sole menu restaurants yesterday, I noticed that the place was packed. Not that it´s unusual for a menu place to be busy, but there are so many of them that almost never is one place more busy than any other. Something seemed out of place, but I wasn´t sure what. I was too hungry to notice just then. Matt and I took the only open table, the one in the middle of the room.

We were talking and not really paying attention to what was going on. That´s when I noticed the entire place was dead silent and that we were being very loud in comparison. ¨I feel like we´ve come at the wrong time,¨ I said. ¨I feel awkward but I don´t know why . . . ¨

We sat in the middle of the restaurant, surrounded by people and every single eye in the place was glued to the television. I noticed a Pervian lady two tables over. She was staring at the TV,  looking horrified but in ecstacy at the same time. Without really considering what in the world she and everyone else, even the waitress, could possibly be watching at 12:30 on a Saturday afternoon, I looked up at the television. After all, it could be my favorite soap opera, La Hija Del Mariachi.

I could not be more wrong.

The program was the most graphic and bloody depiction of the life of Jesus Christ that I have ever seen. I glanced up at the television at the exact instant when a soldier hit Jesus in the eyeball with a rock, leaving a bloody socket where his eye used to be. Ugh.

What was so amazing to me was that everyone was absolutely enthralled. The beating of Jesus continued unchecked, with sound effects and lots of blood and gore and gratuitous missing eyeball shots. I ate my soup in silence and tried to ignore the pitiful moans on the TV. I counted a total of ten children huddled around different tables with their parents, mindlessly shoveling their lunch in their faces while they watched the suffering cinematic Jesus. A group of at least eight people had gathered just outside the door to watch too.

Finally the waitress turned the movie off, but not because of it´s violence. There was a problem with the sound. Within two seconds of the movie being switched off, the crowd outside dispersed. Everyone inside eating at the tables seemed disappointed. As for me, I could finally eat my lunch.