Arequipa, without the condors

Arequipa seemed, in the short time we spent there, as if the city were made up of a series of churches and convents over which loomed three ever-present volcanoes. I'm sure that this impression was not completely accurate - if every citizen were a priest or nun, there's no way the city would have become Peru's second largest.

Still, the Santa Catalina Monastery is so large as to be called "a city within the city," with hundreds of houses and various cloisters which are now painted in charming shades of orange and blue.


The life of today's nuns is not what it used to be in the 16th and 17th centuries. Back then, each nun had her own little cottage and no less than four maids to call her own. She (or her family) paid for that luxury, and the nun's piety was demonstrated by the shearing of her hair and her nearly complete withdrawal from society: the convent's entrance includes a special room from which nuns could receive their parents (and their parents' gifts) once a month, without actually seeing them, thanks to revolving shelves. Today, there are only around 30 nuns at Santa Catalina (I don't remember the exact number), they live in dorms and even cook and clean for themselves. If they desire, they can check out the view of the volcanoes from the top of one of the houses, but when I was there it was only us tourists.


The most fascinating thing about Santa Catalina is the presence of dead nun portraits. Although the nuns were not allowed to see their own faces from the time they entered the convent at age 14 or so, upon their deaths an artist was brought in to paint a portrait of the deceased. This means that these women had little idea of what they themselves looked like upon their deaths (or, really, throughout their lives), and then they were memorialized through that very surface which their piety denied. I would have loved to take in an exhibit of dead nun portraits, and to learn more about the processes (physical and psychological) that leads to such a practice. Was there a local artist whose entire job was painting dead nuns? Or was he a priest? Why was it okay for other people to look at portraits of their fellow nuns, but not for the women themselves to so much as look in a mirror?

And is it possible to really have no idea what you look like? They could, presumably, feel their own faces. And wouldn't other people's reactions give clues to individuals' appearances? Not to mention: How did the nuns ever get the spinach out of their teeth?

So many questions - I should write a book!



The second convent we visited, Santa Teresa, did not have any dead nun portraits on display, and our guide, Jackie, either didn't understand my questions about the subject or else was very good at keeping the mystery a secret. This convent was, however, far superior in terms of nun quality of life and was also far more fun to visit despite being less famous. The reason for this superiority is simple. This convent had a dog.



Misti is a strange-looking little pup of a type called, if you can imagine, "Peruvian dog." He has hair only on the top of his head and on his little paws, and the rest of his skin is gray and wrinkly, like an elephant. Jackie claims that the heat of his skin is somehow used as a cure for heart disease, so clearly this animal is a miracle worker and the part of my arm which he licked will soon become super-strong, an opposite Achilles' heel, if you will. I will fight crime.

I wonder whether Misti is allowed to look in the mirror.



On the way to one of the city's viewpoints, we crossed the river and saw there a very fancy-pants hotel whose garden housed two fluffy alpacas. I am now of the opinion that no hotel is complete with out alpacas. Just look at those beautiful eyes! Oh, and perhaps a Peruvian dog.


I spotted this sign on a street leading away from the main square. I do not recall what the establishment was peddling, although the little airplane signifies travel. Whatever they wanted from me, I didn't do it. And I also didn't take one of the expected tours to the nearby canyon at which people are able to watch condors. I prefer my giant, carnivorous birds in cages (like those in the Lima zoo). Llamas and alpacas, however, should run free.



Arequipa's altitude is 7,800 feet. This is 3,000 feet lower than Cuzco, but as a warm-up I started drinking coca tea, which is meant to treat symptoms of altitude sickness. Some people chew the leaves and thus experience visions and, perhaps, cavities, but I settled for the liquid version. It tastes like leaves.



Speaking of taste, one of the local delicacies is ground hog. It is served with its little legs all splayed and its little head still attached, and my for some reason my mother refused to eat one. This was very unadventurous of her and demonstrates her refusal to keep up her end of the unsual food bargain. I ate the clay! (More on that later.) The least she could have done was eat some rodent. Or perhaps an alpaca steak. We did manage to eavesdrop when a table of Americans seated next to us at a restaurant in Arequipa ate groundhog and alpaca. The groundhog, one particularly loud-voiced gentleman announced, tastes like squirrel.

Clay, in case you're curious, tastes spicy and cold.


Locals hang out in and around the main square in Arequipa, taking in the sights (if they can see from under their hats, that is):


Families bring their children and encourage them to feed the pigeons while photographers pose them. Some people go so far as allow said birds to perch on their very shoulders. They seem undisturbed by this development, but we must remember that these are also people who purposefully eat groundhogs.