“Those born in Kent to the west of the Medway are known as Kentish Men or Kentish Maids, while those born to the east are Men of Kent or Maids of Kent. No one remembers if this ‘rivalry’ means anything.”

A recent article I wrote for Car & Travel (June 2008) talked of the joys of unexpectedly uncovering wonderful destinations when traveling, but the same joy is equally true for uncovering people. People always are looking for a chance to celebrate something, to relax, to have good food and drink and realize the bonds between them. In many countries, such festivals, processions and sporting or cultural events are a brief rest from a life that is tough. The color, pomp and magnificence I might see in a procession might to the participators be nothing more than a cry for help, to their God or gods for rain, for the cessation of rain, or for any other benefit that largely is beyond their control. Or maybe they are just out to have a good time?

Aguas Calientes, Peru

Aguas Calientes is the small town that nestles at the foot of one of the modern wonders of the world, the ruins of Machu Picchu, a place that always seems to be in the top-three must-see spots of every traveler I’ve asked (if it’s not, it’s because they’ve just got back). Machu Picchu is a pre-Columbian ruin that sits high in the Andes (although it is not as high as the nearby city of Cusco) and was “discovered” by Hiram Bingham in 1911. Its Incan walls, dramatic scenery and wandering llamas all are reasons to visit.

Buses leave from this town to take the 14 hair-raising hairpin bends to the ruins, while on the way back down, a small boy will race down unseen trails between the U-bends of the gravel road, reappearing to say “hello” again and again and again…until he jumps on board on the last stretch home to collect tips.

It’s not particularly imaginative, but they are known as the “Hello Boys.”
The town itself is ramshackle. It really has only two streets, and one, Avenida Imperio de Los Incas, is the railroad tracks with a raised pedestrian walkway to either side. The other street, Avenida Pachacutec, goes to the site that gives the town its name, a spa—“aguas calientes,” meaning “warm waters” in Spanish. The spa recently has been repaired following a flood and landslide, but it is far from being a resort-hotel experience. What do you expect for $3 (bring your own towel and soap)?

As I walked up this street, I turned around to savor the view of the town’s Urubamba River (you cannot see Machu Picchu from anywhere other than right at it, which is the reason it remained undiscovered by scholars for so long) and saw this incredible, motley procession winding up the hill. Who is the man with the bandaged face? What could he be representing? So I asked. The reply was that the procession was to ward off earthquakes, which do happen here. In Cusco, there is every Easter a procession in honor of El Señor de los Temblores, The Lord of Earthquakes, which celebrates a painting from the 17th century that supposedly saved the city from disaster. Perhaps the wrapped man survived an earth tremor?

 
And in October, in Peru’s capital, Lima, there is what is perhaps the largest festival in the country, the El Señor de los Milagros (The Lord of Miracles), which also involves a painting from the 17th century that also saved a city from an earthquake. But I was in Aguas Calientes in a September, so I still am none the wiser. Ah, who cares!

Practical Information:

Getting there: I would not advise taking the bus from Cusco to Machu Picchu. It is a long journey, and the bus stops off at several towns along the Scared Valley. If you want to do the bus route, take several days to investigate this beautiful area. Pisac (slightly in the wrong direction if you’re aiming straight for Machu Picchu) is the most beautiful town. It has ruins high above its central square (watch the local octogenarians pass you on the steep trails as though you are standing still), and its Sunday market (also operating to a lesser degree on Tuesdays and Thursdays) is very popular with tourists. Ollantaytambo is larger, and a good base from which to take the bus to Machu Picchu.

The train is a far more comfortable route. A luxury train named for the professor who re-discovered Machu Picchu, Hiram Bingham, is run by PeruRail (www.perurail.com/Pages/hiram_bingham.htm), in conjunction with Orient-Express
Hotels, Trains & Resorts, which manages the very expensive hotel right at the gate of the ruins themselves, the Machu Picchu Sanctuary Lodge (http://machupicchu.orient-express.com/web/omac/omac_a2a_home.jsp). It leaves at 9 a.m. every day from Cusco. There are cheaper trains, named the Vistadome (as it has carriages that give great views) and the Backpackers (a name chosen in case anyone is confused as to who takes it). When all the trains leave Cusco they take about an hour to negotiate the first steep hill out of town, the train reversing back down switchbacks before slowly crawling to the next height and then reversing down (but not so far) again. These maneuvers are completed several times, but all is safe, and this process, while infuriating in some ways, offers interest. Note that all these trains also make the longer journey along the Andes to Puno and famous Lake Titicaca.

Hotels: Apart from the aforementioned, very pricey Machu Picchu Sanctuary Lodge, there is another excellent option near Machu Picchu. This is the Inkaterra Machu Picchu (www.inkaterra.com/en/machu-picchu), back down in Aguas Calientes but to one end and occupying a lush forest of birds, orchids and rushing water. It also has its own station (300 yards from the main station) solely for guests, and a hotel terrace gives excellent views of incoming trains.

Rochester, England

The English like their beer, and this festival I stumbled upon seemed at first glance merely an excuse to raise up a sweat before drinking some. I was in the city of Rochester, approximately 25 miles east of London in the county of Kent, known as the Garden of England. Rochester (www.medway.gov.uk) has both a castle and, immediately opposite, a cathedral. Known as Durobrivae by its Roman founders, the city guarded the entrance to the River Medway, which divides Kent. (An interesting footnote is that those born in Kent to the west of the Medway are known as Kentish Men or Kentish Maids, while those born to the east are Men of Kent or Maids of Kent. No one remembers if this “rivalry” means anything.)

 
The dancers in the photo above are called Morris Men and belong to an ancient tradition in England. (Those wishing to get in on the fun this side of the Atlantic might want to check out such American Morris-dancing groups as the Foggy Bottom Morris Men (Washington, D.C), MossyBack Morris Men (Seattle), Albemarle Morris Men (Charlottesville, Va.), Juggler Meadow Morris Men (Amherst, Mass.), Pokingbrook Morris Dancers (Albany, N.Y.) and Bouwerie Boys Morris Dancers (New York, N.Y.), among others.) Traditionally, it is a male-only affair, with women resigned to musical and social roles: The usual reason given for this is that the Morris dance is an ancient ritual to bring fertility to the countryside, and as the Earth is deemed Female, those charged with bringing health to “her” need thus be male, in order to provide balance, or so the story goes. Women now do dance Morris dances, and there is evidence that they always did so (visit the Website of the Washington, D.C.-based Rock Creek Morris Women: www.uswet.com/RCMW.html). It is also claimed that the origins of these dances go back thousands of years, to pre-Christian rites, but there is no evidence of this either. Today, visitors will merely notice how much fun it is to watch the colorful dancers perform their choreographed jumps, passes and steps, usually while shouting loudly and crashing sticks together. Cider and ale seem to be the drinks of choice, and most Morris dancers would be horrified to be offered anything as “nasty” as a lager, certainly with a lime wedge.

Quite often, dances will accompany a Mummers play, ancient folk stories acted out on the street, usually on a public holiday. All in all, it’s a great excuse for the English to dress up on a summer’s day and add to the colorful fabric that is traditional England. Some suggest that the origin of the word “morris” comes from either “moor” (i.e. North African) or “marisco,” a dance performed in Italy, but, again, no one knows for sure. Both of these explanations bring to mind William Shakespeare’s play Othello, with its central character being a Moor in the service of the Italian city of Venice.

The Morris dancing side shown in the photo is the Boughton Monchelsea Morris Dancing Side (and they are referred to as “sides,” not “groups” or any other such noun), which is based in Boughton Monchelsea, a village near to the county town (sort of the same as a state capital) of Kent, named Maidstone.

Practical Information:

Getting there: Rochester is an hour’s drive from London along the A2 and M2 freeways, though getting out of London is what will take you your time. Another option is to go by train, either from Charing Cross station (approximately 90 minutes) or Victoria station (with express trains, this service takes only 45 minutes or so). If you want to visit Boughton Monchelsea, take a train to Maidstone (from Victoria or Cannon Street stations) and then take the 59 bus, or rent a car.

Hotels: In Rochester, head to the Royal Victoria & Bull Hotel (www.rvandb.co.uk), which is mentioned extensively in Charles Dickens’ novel The Pickwick Papers.

Santiago Atitlán, Guatemala

The journey to the small town of Santiago Atitlán is a memorable one, across the beautiful Lake Atitlán, with volcanoes Tolimán, Atitlán, San Pedro and Santa Clara in the distance and locals washing clothes amid the reeds in the foreground. Visitors walk up a slope to the main part of town. Narrow streets emanate from a central plaza, but soon visitors’ attentions are drawn by tales of a local god called Maximón, who also is known as Hermano San Simón (Brother Saint Simón) and, from an earlier pre-Columbian word, Mam, meaning “grandfather.” His name supposedly derives from joining up the word “Mam” with the last syllable of “Simón.” Usually he is pictured wearing early 20th-century clothes, notably a black hat and suit and a red tie. He is brought as offerings cigars, incense, rum, orange blossoms and, recently, U.S. dollars (for the privilege of taking photographs).

It is a challenge to find him. The custodians of the deity (and perhaps those dollars, too) tend to regularly move him between the houses of the cult’s members, but as this is also tourism, any number of local children for a tip will lead you directly to him. Incense smoke is seen flowing out of a darkened room, but once your eyes have adjusted, you’ll see Maximón’s finery and an assortment of recently given presents.

 
I was interested in Maximón’s carers, who were also wearing bright colors, and the calendars on the wall donated by local businesses, which might be hoping not to get on his wrong side and instead have an auspicious year of commerce.
Soon, Maximón was lifted onto the shoulders of his followers, who walked along Santiago Atitlán’s streets in a procession followed by at least half the town. The people here speak Spanish but also a Mayan language, it being the capitol of the Tzutujil Mayans.

Practical Information:

Getting there: To reach Santiago Atitlán, take the boat from the more easily accessible Lake Atitlán port of Panajachel. Getting to that port from Guatemala City or Antigua (which is nearer and should definitely be visited) requires a local bus, so it might all be just so much easier to go on an organized tour either from Guatemala City or Antigua.

Hotels: Two beautiful hotels in Santiago Atitlán are the Posada de Santiago (www.posadadesantiago.com) and the Hotel Bambu Santiago Atitlán (www.ecobambu.com): indigenous furniture; lake views; colorful, wool blankets and other wonderful stuff.

Evandale, Tasmania

Tasmania literally is at the end of the world, and as the former Van Diemen’s Land, a British penal colony, it often has felt like the end of all hope (knowing that you were most likely to spend the rest of your life, or a very large chunk of it, on an island that has as part of its name, the word “Diemen” in it probably would have that effect).
Today, Tasmania is an incredibly beautiful vacations spot, one that contains real wilderness. Its culinary scene and viniculture also have drawn many of late.

Arriving early in the morning off a ferry from Melbourne on the Australian mainland, I picked up a rental car. As I was doing so, I noticed in the office a poster for the National Penny Farthing Championships, part of the Evandale Village Fair (www.evandalevillagefair.com) held every Australian summer in February. I drove directly there.

Penny-farthings bicycles are better known on our shores as Big-, High-wheel or, even, Ordinary bicycles. They hail from the Victorian age and have one very large wheel at the front and one very small one at the back (see photo below). The seat is over the top of the large wheel, and I would not have any idea even how to get on one, let alone race it. They get their name of Penny farthing from two British coins that were used until 1971 and 1960, respectively: the large penny (a little larger than our quarter) and the smaller farthing (about the size of a nickel). Today, their combined equivalent value in U.S. dollars would be approximately .625 of a cent.

 
These bikes were first produced in England, but a Boston-based company called Columbia also made them. One American, Thomas Stevens, rode a Columbia bicycle of this type the whole width of the United States in 1884, before setting off to ride across Europe, the Middle East and Asia, thus becoming the first person to ride around the world. No record has been made as to how many times he lost balance.

Evandale is a small town, and on the day I arrived large bales of hay marked the course and prevented crashes from turning into serious accidents. Many races were held over different distances, for different age groups and for both genders. Australians made up the largest number of entrants, but the word “National” in the event’s title does not do the occasion justice, for in attendance were numerous competitors from Japan, Germany, New Zealand and the United Kingdom. The occasional American competitor makes the long journey there, too, including the legendary (well, at least in Penny-farthing circles) Jack Castor, an Arizonan who won five Evandale championships in two age categories and also paid homage to Stevens by cycling on one of these bikes the full breadth of the United States.

Races took place all day, Penny farthings leaned over to almost gravity-defying angles, and many race fans wore Victorian garb.

Practical Information:

Getting there: It’s a very long flight! Fly to Sydney or Melbourne and then catch a smaller plane to either Hobart or Launceston in Tasmania. Launceston is a nice town (I have not been to Hobart) with a fairly spectacular gorge within walking distance. Its airport is far closer to Evandale than it is to actual Launceston, so a taxi from it to the festival should not be expensive. From Hobart or the town of Launceston, either rent a car or take a Metrotas bus (www.metrotas.com.au).

Hotels: Launceston and Hobart are the places in which to stay, and both have numerous hotels catering to every budget.

Pastrana, Spain

The Spanish region of La Alcarria is less than 30 minutes east of the Spanish capital, Madrid. A few hastily thrown-up housing developments blight the landscape, but apart from those, the area looks much like it did—with some better road surfaces now—when Spanish Nobel Prize for Literature winner Camilo José Cela wrote his travel journal, Viaje a la Alcarria (Journey to the Alcarria), on the region in 1948.

Cela went to the small town of Pastrana, and in the copy of the book I have, it shows a photo he took of a small fountain. I decided I wanted to see if it was still there (it is, in the Cuatro Caños). Sitting on a hill amid vines, arable land and poplar trees, Pastrana is a sleepy place, but on the day I visited I was curious to see bands of youngsters wearing identical T-shirts and heavy steel doors closing off side roads. I had come across early preparations for a Running of the Bulls, or, in Spanish, an encierro, or literally, a “closing.”

That runnings-of-the-bulls take place anywhere other than in Pamplona, North Spain, during the Festival of San Fermín (immortalized by another Nobel Prize for Literature winner, Ernest Hemingway, in his novel The Sun Also Rises) was a revelation to me, but they are staged all over Spain, many in the month of August. That’s the month in which many people in southern Europe go on vacation, or at least close their shops and restaurants.

I sat on the top of a metal safety barrier in the Plaza de la Hora to await the start of the event, opposite a window that was the only place from which Ana de Mendoza y de la Cerda, also known as the Princess of Éboli, was allowed to see the outside world after being exiled here from the king’s court in Madrid following a scandal involving a courtier and the accusation of stealing state secrets. This all took place in the 16th century. It must have been a very lonely life.

Four cannon blasts mark the minutes down to the event’s start, or, more importantly, let everyone know that the streets are suddenly not safe places to wander. The sudden appearance of gangs of runners wearing colored T-shirts is the first indication that the bulls are coming. These groups are known as peñas, informal clubs whose members eat and drink together during festivals and try to show more courage than the other peñas when it comes to displaying bravery around the bulls.

 
Five bulls streamed down the narrow street and underneath an arch. The peña members ran to the sides of the street, up and over barricades and even up to the bulls themselves, taunting them to make charges. Most spectators feel content to hide behind the barricades.

After the second time the bulls came in my direction, I could plainly see that they showed a combination of tiredness and/or apathy. I also had the firm belief that there are several grades of bull, and the really serious ones—the ones that on occasion gore to death peña members (and tourists) in Pamplona—are a different breed altogether: tougher, faster, crazier, nastier, bred specifically for the purpose of running in that particular festival.
After all the bulls were placed into pens, the entire town decides that it is now time to eat and drink, and I joined them.

I could recognize the Pastrana that Cela wrote about in his book (he writes in the third person): “Next morning, when the traveler made his appearance in the Plaza de la Hora and felt that he had entered Pastrana in spirit and in truth, the first sensation he had was one of being in a medieval city, a great medieval city. The Plaza de la Hora is square, large, uncluttered and airy. It is a curious plaza, for it has only three sides, the fourth being open and commanding a view down to one of the two river meadows of the Arlés….Pastrana is a city of streets with beautiful, evocative names: Street of the Ladies, of the Bulls, of the Chimneys, Street of Santa María, of the Height, of the Pool, of the Fig Orchard, of the Threshing Floor…In the Plaza of Cuatro Caños, the traveler discovers a slender fountain shaped like a goblet, covered with a stone veneer now cracked by the passage of time, and surmounted by a decoration in the form of a chess pawn…The mayor arranges to have water come out of the spouts so that the traveler can take a picture, and sends a constable off to find a wrench to open them with. Several women take advantage of the circumstance to fill their pitchers and jugs.”

Practical Information:

Getting there: A journey to Madrid and its new, architecturally magnificent Barajas airport might actually make flying fun. Lots of airlines make direct flights here from the United States. To continue to Pastrana, you will need a car (although you can take a 90-minute bus ride from Madrid if you so chose, as two buses leave every weekday morning). If driving, stop off in Alcalá de Henares (almost a suburb of Madrid now), where the author of Don Quixote de la Mancha, Miguel Cervantes, was born. A museum now occupies the house in which he came into the world, although most likely the original dwelling was torn down many centuries ago.

Hotels: Pastrana really has no hotels. If you have the time, drive on to the gorgeous town of Cuenca and stay in the impressive Posada de San José (www.posadasanjose.com) on Julián Romero street.