Going The Distance

After packing up from the grey & uninspiring, Hotel Berlina – we got our bike out of the garage, loaded it up, and headed over to the other side of the valley – to the Wild Rover’s Backpacker hostel. The idea being that we would have more fun with drunken Irish and Aussie backpackers than the guy at the front desk at the Hotel Berlina. The first hurdle came at the first hill, Alanna got out and let me drive without her weight (not a laughing matter, people) until the next bit of level ground. It’s at this point I am regretting not changing the jets. I tried to do so in Puno, but we were running late, and I couldn’t find space off the road to take the carbs apart. I thought I could risk it, get to La Paz, where there would be time and technical support (the world’s highest capital city is familiar with altitude problems). Here’s a brief explanation of what this “jets” thing is all about. If you know all about this already, move onto the next paragraph, if you will be easily terrifed / bored by this technical chat, then turn away now. The diagram below alone should be enough to send you away from this webpage forever if you are of the latter constitution.

The diagram to the left explains the operation of the Venturi principle, on which a carburettor is based. You don’t really have to understand how this works, to understand this “jets” thing. It was really just to scare off the wrong kind of reader…

The engine needs air (specifically oxygen) to mix with the fuel – for the internal combustion to work. This mixing takes place in the carburettor; and the engine is designed around a specific ratio of fuel to oxygen. When the oxygen level is depleted (at high altitude), the fuel supply needs to be constricted too, so that this ratio is maintained. You can restrict the fuel supply in the carb, by unscrewing and changing these small bolts inside the carburettor – which have thin holes running through them. Normal conditions merit a main jet size of about 0.125 mm, but in high altitude (of more than 2,000m) this should be reduced to 0.120. Which I didn’t do until the third day at altitude. Which means that on this drive over to the hostel, we were limited in power, and carrying all our stuff. And each other. So our total weight was about 800kg. Also, the streets of La Paz are a nightmare; the worst traffic I have seen in Latin America, means that most streets are rammed with carsd moving very slowly. That, and the fact that the streets are as steep as the best in San Francisco or a French Alpine town, mean that hill starts happened every couple of minutes. Now I am not a mechanic (as is probably apparent to Ural fans reading this page), but basic physics would suggest that steep hills, heavy loads, low power and high altitude would be a struggle for any machine – and especially the clutch. Again for the uninitiated amongst you, the clutch is what transfers the power from the engine to the gear-box and ultimately the back wheel. If there is not enough power (high altitude & wrong jets) and there is too much stress on the system (steep hills, heavy load) then the breaking point is the clutch.

Hence, up the third hill, the clutch starts smoking. We’re stuck in traffic, at a 35 degree incline, weighing 1450lbs. Alanna hops out (new weight, 450lbs. Just kidding…) and starts pushing. The clutch is screaming. The Bolivians are gawking. And we just managed to squeak over the crest of the hill, onto a level to roll down to the hostel and lick our smoking wounds. That night I studiously changed the jets without too much difficulty, got very drunk with some Aussie backpackers, went to bed, closed my eyes, and hoped that the bike would somehow mend itself by the morning.

We stayed at the hostel until Boxing Day, when we transferred to another hotel on the other side of town to be with our other biker friends. (by following a taxi who had the specific instructions to avoid hills) And on the 28th, we set out for the south, hoping that all was well. It wasn’t.

First up, the battery was dead. I had spent some time on Christmas eve fiddling with the jets in the dark, using the headlight to illuminate he matter. Silly. After our friend Judy helped us bump start the bike, we rolled very slowly forward. When I realised that my big foot had kicked off the supply pipe from the carburettor into the engine (which I hadn’t screwed on as tightly as I should have). While I sorted that without too much difficulty, the real trouble came when I still had no power trying to climb the hill. Alberto, a helpful passer-by and president of the La Paz Harley Davidson club, helpfully told me that the clutch was burnt out. And with that, we let everything (including my temper) cool down a bit, and took a circuitous (less-hilly) route to his brother’s mechanic’s shop  Where I filmed the following…

We leave Puno late in the morning (which is foolish because La Paz is an 8 hour drive away – and that’s not including border control).

Before we leave, we see the amazing site of a wedding outside the main church in Puno. The crowd of wedding guests has gathered on the pavement, a band of 5 mariachi-looking fellows is playing loud music, and the bride and groom are dancing. Nothing that special, I hear you thinking. Not until we realised that the bride was a chola, an indigenous woman of the region, with little bowler hat on (sombrero), the classic dress – though richly embroidered white for the wedding, and 2 black plaits down her back and linked together at the bottom. She is surrounded by other women in similar, if less ornate, attire, all dancing with their tradiotionally garbed men. A crowd has gathered beyond the wedding guests to witness the joyful event. Mike and I are the only gringos, I stand sheepishly on the edge, where Mike, ever the documentary maker, elbows his way through the crowd and points our huge camera at the couple to capture the moment.

The day is beautifully sunny, and we set off to drive around the spectacular Lake Titicaca. On the way, we pull over to get a shot of Puno, back across the lake, glistening in the bright sun. As we are doing so, a chola creeps out from the tumbledown house we have stopped beside to look at us. I take the opportunity to ask if we could interview her and her husband. Rosa, for that is her name, tells me that her husband is working the fields, but agrees to talk to us. I have to confess, dear reader, that I didn’t understand a word of it. If she was speaking Spanish, it was a slurred and garbled version far from anything which my low-level comprehension could make out. She did say, though, that love is for life. She then stuck out her hand and asked for a propina (tip). Fine, fine, have 5 soles.

The border takes hours. 3 hours. Mike disappears off to interact with an old man who regarded computers with total bewilderment but still had to spend his working day using one. I am left guarding the bike. Lucky for me, a fascinating character wanders up and starts chatting about the bike. It turns out he is a world expert veterinarian on camelidos sudamericanos. To you and me, that’s the term for the family which is comprised of llamas, alpacas, guanacos and vicunas.

He’s lectured around the world on these beasts, and was even lured to Italy to work on one of the many alpaca farms out there. I ask him all the questions I have ever wanted to ask about llamas and their littler friends:

1. Like camels, are they quite bad-tempered? Yes.

2. Like camels, do they have bad breath? Yes.

3. What are the occupational hazards of working with these type of beasts? Do they bite? No, they don’t bite. They spit, and kick. You can’t walk behind them.

4. What’s the difference between them all? Llamas are the biggest. They and alpacas are domesticated. Vicunas, the smallest, and guanacos, are wild. The animals are covered in hair, not fur, which is great for making clothes out of. Llama hair is the coarsest, then alpaca – with vicuna being the finest, and most prized. It can cost an absolute fortune.

5. He talked about how integral these animals are to rural societies in Peru and Bolivia. He said that it’s not possible to study them without understanding the role they play – entire families depend on them.

After another couple of hours of driving (in the dark, thanks to the spectacularly inept customs official who took an hour to press the “print” button on his computer…) we descended into the mighty bowl / bowel that is La Paz. First night hotel choices are always a struggle, we get lost, we’re broken with tiredness, and can’t make any decisions. So Hotel Berlina had our custom, until we could think straight in the morning, and head for where the fun was…

Fernando kindly offers to take photos of us, in suits and on the bike. Arequipa is nestled in between three volcanoes, the nearest and most prominent of which is called Misti. So we take photos with the splendour of Misti behind us as the sun gleams.

We then head to Santa Catalina, the oldest city-within-a-city convent in the world. It’s gloriously breathtaking, and extremely photogenic.

We then race back to the bike and set off for Puno, a city on the altiplano on the shores of Lake Titicaca.

Yet more family. Hurray! This time, family comes in the form of Diego Munoz-Najar and his wife, Flavia. Diego runs the oldest distillery in Peru, that of Anis Najar. He is the 5th generation Najar to be at the helm, inheriting the place from his uncle around 7 years ago.

Diego gives us a tour of the distillery. The Bodega Najar was established in 1854 when the first Najar came over from Spain, intent on distilling his own anise to Spanish traditions. The process remains remarkably similar to its early days: the anise seeds are added to the alcohol in wooden barrels and left there for a week or so to infuse the alcohol with the flavour of anise seed.

The seeds are then sieved from the alcohol, and the alcohol goes to be distilled – in the very same distiller that the company has been using since its inception. From there, the alcohol is distilled once again, this time using large vats, the secret ingredient is added, and the liquid is then bottled. Simple really. It’s just the family’s secret recipe that you’re missing and you could start up your own little anis place.

In fact, one of the headaches of running the place is just that: the black market floods the market with imitation Anis Najar. He describes the country’s attitude to commerce as “informal” and says there is little protection (and thus incentive) for legit businesses. In an effort to curb the practice of bottling cheaper, poorer quality Anis in Anis Najar lookalike bottles, the company has just redesigned its bottle. Which should give him a grace period before the counterfeiters catch up.

The reason that we’d pounced on this relative of mine (with much super sleuthing help from my father to track him down in the first place – and thus the rest of the family) is that the Bodega Najar also distils Peru’s most famous of drinks: Pisco. Peru’s very own, distinctive variation of Latin America’s ubiquitous rocket fuel liquor, aguardiente (“fiery water” which can mean any distilled spirit). Pisco is made from grapes. A bit like Italy’s grappa, or brandy, it’s clear and boy, is it potent. Named after Pisco, the city and port just south of Lima, the region in which it was originally made, the grapes are now grown and distilled throughout the south of Peru. An American, in the 1920s, created a way of drinking it which stopped it from tasting like nail polish remover, and made it both socially acceptable and very popular: the Pisco Sour (which has its roots in the whisky sour). It’s a cocktail of Pisco, lime juice, simple syrup, egg white and Angostura bitters or a sprinkle of cinnamon. I find it delicious, but it’s also got a real kick, and a real gift for hangover. But, with the llama, it’s one of Peru’s most famous exports.

Sadly, the bulk of the work for the botega’s Centenario Najar Pisco is done off site, away from the Arequipan factory. The process is similar to that for wine or the Anis. We did get to see it bottled though, and, of course, to try some.

We then interview Diego and his wife of 15 years, Flavia.

No interviews today! Bliss. So Fernando and Aurora take the opportunity to introduce us to the magical city of Arequipa. It’s colonial in style, with cobbled streets and beautiful buildings. Fernando Gygax is one of the city’s most reknowned photographers (he recently had an exhibition in Switzerland http://www.danielagygax.com.ar/fernando_gygax/), and as well as running his own publishing house, he proudly contributes to the magazine Pachamama which is filled with his exquisite pictures of Peru and the Andes.

He takes us first to a mirador so that we can see the city from above. We then journey down into the heart of its cobbled streets, and to lunch at newly opened restaurant Chi Cha (a celebration of Arequipan culinary tradition established by Peru’s darling of cuisine, Gaston – who we tried to interview countless times with his equally famous wife, Astrid). The food is delicious, the laughter contagious and we marvel at how much we are loving Peru.

It’s worth mentioning briefly that Aurora and Fernando have various wonderful pets. The first is Lola, a little white dog who is utterly captivating. Aurora introduced her as her baby, now that her two children have left the nest. In the garden, they have 2 birdcages: one houses 3 budgies, the other, a 22 year old, hostile male parrot from the Peruvian rainforest. From the very first moment that Piwuiche makes his first attempt to chomp a chunk out of my meaty palm, I’m smitten. He squawks with hostility as I approach, is always ready to bite, and glares at me with his beady eyes when I try to say hello. All of which render me helpless with adoration. I can confirm with pride that by the time we left Arequipa, he no longer bit me when I offered my palm, and he was quite content in my presence, so no more squawking. When Fernando takes him out of the cage, he’s good as gold, so I still have some way to go. Don’t think you’ve seen the last of me, Piwuiche!

People say that the drive from Nazca to Arequipa takes about 8 hours. Which means, without too much doubt, about 10 hours for us. It’s not the fault of the bike, but by the time you’ve factored in lunch, countless stopping to shoot the bike driving through the scenery, you do eventually add a fair whack to your total driving hours. So we pull into Arequipa in the dark. Never ideal. A taxi guides us through the darkened streets to the home of Fernando and Aurora, yet more tenuously related wonderful Peruvians. We immediately promise them that we won’t stay with them for longer than 3 nights. Promise.

We leave La Calera with heavy hearts. I’ve spent a couple of days feeling distinctly under the weather, and what a beautiful place to be nursed back to health. But it’s time to man up, pack up and hit the road. It’s HOT HOT HOT. And dusty. And when sun is blazing, suncream is on and the environment is dusty, our faces become FILTHY. Dust and pollution stick to the suncream layer and we finish the ride looking like one of Fegan’s street children. I particularly like Mike’s clown eyebrows, myself.

I’m still not feeling right, so Mike transports a sickly wife down to Nazca, site of the famous lines. I go straight to bed for the afternoon, Mike goes to take a flight over the barren landscape to see the ancient and mysterious line drawings from the air.

Mike here, hello. Sadly I can’t make Alanna write up my experience of the Nazca lines, as she wasn’t there. It was a fairly rapid affair (walked out of the hotel, bought a ticket from a man, who drove me to the airport, got straight on a plane – flew about for 15 mins, then back to the hotel). The lines themselves are worth every minute of the hour of my life (and $25)  that I spent on the excursion. There’s nothing that can be said in a second class blog like this (my bit anyway, Alanna’s writing is smashing…)  that begins to justify the enormity and some would argue the stupidity of the project – drawing huge images in the sand that can only be seen from a plane. Some have speculated that they are around 7,000 years old, some have speculated that “it’s the aliens that did it” (see spooky “Spaceman” line to the right). But generally everyone is stumped by the matter –  including the German archaelogist Maria Reiche, who devoted her life to understand the mystery. She has a statue of her in Nazca’s town square, (which looks a little like Eric Morecambe in drag, looking out to sea) so it wasn’t a complete waste of her energies. So good for her.

But really the highlight of the trip, that no tour operator can guarantee, is a vomming American student. She did know before we left that she could get a little sea-sick, so it came as no surprise after the geoglyph, “The Hand” that she reached for a plastic bag, and began wretching like a cat with a fur ball. I think the trouble with the incident is that I haven’t grown up, and that far from feeling sorry for her (who was sweaty profusely by the time we touched down), I had a hard time stiffling the giggles, and wishing that that was a bit more space in the light aircraft, so that I could film her better. Here’s a still of the back of her head. You’ll have to imagine the noise…

That night we meet Graham, Sue (from North Yorkshire, riding 2 up on a BMW 1200GS) and Richard (a bearded aussie, riding a V-strom top to bottom) – all bikers doing the Panamerican too – who  we ended up spending Christmas and New Year with.

Oh, and here’s the monkey I saw below. See it? And on the right is the one from Wikipedia, that’s a bit clearer…

It has no doubt not escaped your attention, you faithful few, that I have been very slack about getting posts up in the last weeks. For this, I humbly apologise. The reason for this tardiness is that Peru was a wonderful symphony of my distant relatives kept us perpetually entertained… But, by way of a small thank you, a belated happy Christmas, and a Promise-I’ll-Blog-In-The-Next-Day-Or-Two, here are some photos.

These beautiful photos were taken by another of my distant relatives, one of Arequipa’s finest professional photographers, Fernando Gygax. More to follow!

Mike and I have waited with baited breath for the moment when we have a screaming row, or come to despise each other wholly. Sadly, for the fascination factor of the documentary, this moment has not come. But I do think our relationship has evolved substantially over the last 6 months. We are really good little team now, and I think we know each other better than we ever could have expected to (he can now navigate – if not anticipate – my moods, I know where his head’s at – always tense in the morning, especially before a long day’s driving, etc) but I thought I’d share with you all a neat little example of how we treat each other:

Mike and the hook

We were in downtown Lima, as it happens we were looking for Ricardo Badani, the man with the many wives. We’d been told that he had a women’s clothing shop in the centre of town, so we were hunting for it (turns out that the shop is long closed, but we didn’t know that, of course). We were packing up the bike, having not been able to find said shop. Mike was putting away the camera in the boot, which is always a pain in the neck: the entire boot has to be unloaded, the massive bag put in, and the items (such as sleeping bag, wet weather gear, charger bag, breakdown triangle etc) replaced. Mike was pulling out the bag when one of the many bungee cords which holds our stuff to the back. One flew up, and somehow – miraculously – managed to hook into Mike’s nose. It caused him a lot of pain, even drew blood.

I found it hilarious. That the hook, on its random trajectory at the end of the stretchy bungee, should hook into his nostril was perfect comedy. Not least because it was a neat little substantiation that his nose is slightly bigger than average size. I bit my lip and tried hard not to laugh. Tears welled in my eyes as I tried to be the concerned wife, instead of honking with laughter.

Mike was livid. He was in pain, we hadn’t found Badani, he had to drive, his nose was bleeding and his wife was laughing at him.

Happy days.
Alanna and the stairs

Needless to say, he got his own turn to honk with laughter at the suffering of his beloved – about 10 days later, in Arequipa. Staying with yet more fabulous members of my very distant family (we likened ourselves to Tarzan and Jane swinging through my family tree with abandon). They have a nice house, with polished wooden stairs. I put on a pair of socks, but no shoes one morning. FOOL.

I was coming down the stairs to join Mike at the bottom when my feet shot out from under me. I held on desperately to the banister, but it was in vain. I landed squarely on my not insubstantial right buttock, at Mike’s feet. I looked up at him, directly above me, winced slightly, and he made a very similar face to the one I had made not 10 days before: pathetically trying to demonstrate conjugal concern without betraying the wave of laughter quickly erupting within him.

There you have it folks. We are one of those couples who laughs at the other one’s pain. We try not to (rational brain trying to override) but we just can’t help it (good old schadenfreude whips love’s butt).

I’m in the sidecar. We’re driving from Chincha to Nazca along the coast of Peru, probably the last coast we’re going to see for a while since we have now decided to head inland for the rest of our trip, abandoning the desert wastelands of Northern Chile’s Atacama and instead curving in and up towards Titicaca, Bolivia and Northern Argentina.

We have just spent two magical days at the farm, La Calera, of Peru’s biggest egg producer. 4 million hens lay 2.5 million eggs a day. The farm employs around 1,500 people from nearby Chincha, prvinding much needed jobs for a town ravaged by earthquake only 2 years ago. The man behind the the farm, this entire massive enterprise, is Tayo Masias. He and his wife of 45 years Beatriz, live on a hacienda built by Jesuits in the middle of it all.

The couple have weathered many storms over the years, surviving assassination attempts on Tayo’s life and losing everything to agrarian reform, but they have come back stronger. Tayo, at our request, gives us a detailed and lengthy tour of the farm. Being urban born and raised, I find it completely fascinating. Tayo took land which no one wanted – desert land between the coastal hills which previously was prety much uncultivated, and he turned it into something enormous. As well as the chickens, which provide 95% of the farm’s profit, they produce tangerines, grapes, avocados and oranges. Last year, the citrus export from La Calera accounted for 40% of the fruit exported from Peru. Rows and rows of fruit trees stretch to the base of the sandy hills which rise up all around. Tayo loves what he does. he is constantly innovating and is proud to have been the one to introduce a lot of farming technologies used in Peru today from abroad.

One of his crowning innovations is the incorporation of biogas into the workings of the farm: the chickens’ guano is used to create energy, water and fertilizer for the farm. He has built huge tanks where the chicken shit is mixed with water and churned, the released methane and CO2 are then used to heat the chicken pens. The water, infused with the rich nutrients of the excrement, is then filtered and piped out to the growing plants. Tayo shows us how he has managed to use rocky land previouly deemed barren. The farm plants lemon trees into the dusty rocky land. The roots are tenacious and take well, they are nourished not by fertilizer, but by irrigation with this nutrient water. Once the roots have taken and the tree begins to grow, tangerine shoots are grafted into the sturdy lemon roots and so the tree grows from the rocks. Quite unbelievable.

During the time of agrarian reform in 1970, the government took everything from Tayo and distributed it amongst the peasants. Armed soldiers arrived at the hacienda one morning as Beatriz was sewing, and told them of the plans. Slowly, Tayo has built up the 2 hectares he was left with. He has gradually been buying back the land in the valley from the peasants, and the farm now stretches to 1,500 hectares.

The chickens are housed in cages which Tayo himself devised, all of which are built on the farm. The chicken buildings are numerous and extend up the hills into land which was thought unusable. Each pen houses 20,000 chickens, there are three per cage, and as they lay, the eggs roll down to a little tray where they are colected by hand. 2.5 million a day. The time of day that they lay, we learn, depends on the time of day they are fed. Usually, the afternoon feed will result in a morning egg. Brilliant, as regimented as a poo. 50% of the hens are red, 45% black and 5% white. The white ones lay the most eggs, but they don’t sell for much ($1 per chicken at the end for their meat), the red ones lay fairly well and are worth $3 per chicken for their meat, and the black ones lay the least well, but can be sold at $5 a hen at the end of their useful lives. The farm earns $2m a day and supplies Peru’s supermarkets with every single egg on their shelves.

Unlike in the States and Brazil, where corn is grown so can be bought cheap, Peru has to import its chicken feed. (Despite being the land where corn came from, says Tayo!) Which means that it is expensive, so Tayo has devised other ways to feed the chickens to supplement the corn he imports. Some of the chicken guano is laid out in the sun to dry, from which feed is created. (The smell at the places where the chicken shit is dried is overpoweringly strong…) This accounts for 10% off the feed of the chickens. He refines low grade fishmeal in huge tanks, improving the quality then incorporating it into the chicken feed which means that the eggs have Omega 3 in them. Japan, one of the country’s where La Calera’s produce is exported to, has strict rules about antibiotics and use of mediacation, so the chickens are not over medicated. Antibitoics are only used on the very small chickens.

We were taken to the housing for the chicks (1 million of the chickens on the farm are there for producing more chickens). The pen is enclosed (the chicks need to be kept warm – whereas older hens can be kept in the open air with only a roof). The smell is pretty intense, a musty, shitty smell. The workers are hard at work cutting off the beaks of the chicks. This prevents them from hurting each other later. 20,000 chicks have the points of their beaks removed daily by this team of workers. The procedure is swift and effective. Chicks are picked out of the group cages, held tightly, their beaks are then inserted into a small hole in a machine, a blade lowered quickly and the end is cut off. The worker then holds the remaining beak (now about 3mm shorter) against a red hot plate, burning it and sealing the new beak. The chicks are then administered with 3 innoculations and put into a cage with other stumpy beaked chicks.

Everything on the farm is done by hand, to create jobs, Tayo says. He is a hugely socially responsible boss. The other big employer in Chincha is a textile plant, employing 3,000 workers. Tayo’s whole approach to employment is that he wants his workers to feel proud to work for La Calera. He pays 3 times as much as the textile plant to the workers. Breakfast and lunch are provided to the 1,500 employees daily, and transportation to and from Chincha. He gives them all insurance and benefits. 2 years ago, the town suffered a devastating 7.9 earthquake which killed 500, and rendered most of the inhabitants homeless. Tayo decided to build houses for the workers, so he currently is in the process of constructing 1,000 homes for the workers of La Calera. And the houses are big too – 3 bedrooms and very comfortable. The government have encouraged the scheme and are helping to pay for it, but Tayo is stumping up a lot of the cash himself: every home costs the government $6k, him $2k and the worker a $2k mortgage.

That’s not to say that he’s adored – he has survived one assassination attempt, where he was driving on his farm and ten armed men leapt out and peppered the car with bullets (he says that he will always drive a Jeep because they saved his life), the passenger sustained wounds to his leg. And last month, when he drove into Cincha to pay the workers, he was held up and the robbed of the money.

For this reason, Tayo has always been reluctant to advertise the name of La Calera farm – the eggs have always been in unmarked boxes, the trucks un-named. But his sons, who now run satellite operation farms from the main one, have finally convinced their father that they need to become a well-known, well-recognised and well-trusted brand to be able to fend off competition which is threatening to emerge from the States. Up until now, Tayo has always said that he’d rather have his life than a huge brand, but now that Peru feels a little safer, he is prepared to surrender the anonymity he has had previously.

The hacienda is one of the most beautiful that I have ever seen. It can sleep 60 without difficulty, and in real comfort. Towels are monogrammed with La Calera, shampoo and shower gel is all tangerine scented and La Calera branded. It’s like an exquisite hotel.

Beatriz is beautiful, with big blue eyes and an ethereal and elegant manner. Tayo is more no-nonsense, but a great host. He has always been a sportsman, winning the world rowing championships 4 times in his 50s. Now his love is polo. He keeps 150 horses on the farm, all for polo. His 3 sons all play, and his 10 year old grandson has just been invited to Argentina to compete in a championship where his team came 2nd out of 65. His daughter is a world class ballerina who has just set up a dance company which harnesses the amazing talent of the children who dance for money at Lima’s traffic lights, and the company are set for a tour to the States. All in all, they are quite some family.

“Amor es dar”. Love is to give. Our interview with them is a good one. Beatriz is the intellect, always more introspective and with a hunger for knowledge. Tayo says “I have always been the work horse” and that, he says, was their greatest difficulty, but they have found a way to complement each other perfectly. Beatriz is great friends with Tayo’s younger sister Mani (married to my grandmother’s cousin, Bernardo and who we interviewed and stayed with in Lima – and who we adore!). So Beatriz met Tayo, 5 years older, for the first time when she was 7 years old. She was immediately smitten by his energy and masculinity. A few years later, when she was around 12 and he 17, he was winning rowing accolades and was well known. She says that she was a little fatty (“una gordita” concurs Tayo – a name he later starts to use for me…!) and Tayo was completely unaware of her existence. She, meanwhile, was collecting cuttings from all the newspapers and magazines he featured in, totally idolizing him.

In his early 20s, he was already working hard to make something of the farm. At that point, it had no electricity, no phones and was (and still is) 2 and a half hours drive south of Lima. He would spend weeks down at the farm, then come up to Lima for weekends. The lack of communication meant that he couldn’t arrnage his social life at all – so one weekend, he arrived in Lima expecting to go on a date with his then squeeze. but he couldn’t contact her. He was lamenting this to a friend who said, “why don’t you call Beatriz? She loves Brahms, like you”. “What? That little fatty?” he replied (though in reality, she was thin by this point – and very beautiful). So they went on a date, and so it went from there.

Tayo is a serious fellow. He says that he has always known what he wanted in life, and worked hard to get it. A few months after they started dating, Tayo had to leave Peru to do his Masters in the States. He spent the next year thinking about Beatriz, he wrote her a letter every single day, and he resolved that he wanted to marry her (“she had good bones, a good brain, and I wanted her to be the mother of my children”) so he came back and proposed to her. Ironically, she at this point, was reluctant. She was young, 17, and she was intimidated by the “hurricane” who was persuing her. She said her own mother was the same as Tayo, a strong and powerful force, and she just needed to think for a while about it. She relented, and the two of them have not looked back since. They have 4 children who are their whole worlds. Tayo says that everything he does is for his children, the farm, everything. He feels more pride for the existence of his children than anything else he has done.

His advice was to think about who you want to marry then go out and try and find them. He says that it should be a major decision, and not just someone you meet at a nightclub or party. At one point, he even gets a tear in his eye at the thought of losing Beatriz (having said beforehand “why would people cry?!”) A whirlwind force and his beautiful and brainy wife, fascinating.