Hostal Pakarina is the type of place I would be absolutely mortified to take my mother, and good god, by the grace of a few unfortunate events, my Maman does not have to bear witness to this hell hole of an overpriced excuse for sleeping quarters.
Sure, by some backpacker standards, Hostal Pakarina totally fits the bill, coming close to some of the luxurious digs I have the pleasure of hoarding to myself in India.
But, not when forking over $35+tax a night.
Here, our room costs exactly the same as our spacious ensuite in Cusco for a fraction of the niceties, and Graham and I are horrified. Granted, I skew bargain, but between the stench of damp, moldy everything, lack of shower curtain–scarred, I tell you, from having showered in the shitter for too many months in end–and failed communication about needing to cancel our second room because my abuela passes away unexpectedly, I am dismayed, downright down-trodden.
We almost bail, one foot out the door, but we know, too, that all of these places are haphazard attempts at making a living, luxury nowhere near our price point, so, knowing this, we stay and accept the guy standing on a pile of pebbles behind our stairwell picking away at a big stone to make it a smaller stone.
It’s almost comical how bad it is, me knowing in my gut that the H on the shower nozzle is more for show than actuality–and, indeed, when I attempt to bathe, it is frigid, and I refuse to submit my body to such cruelty, so down we go to the hotel manager porque, señor, hay una problema muy urgente–and once cleaner and quasi-readied for bed, all there is to do is laugh, for it is truly absurd.
I think that deep down, even the hotel staff must recognize the ridiculousness of it all, for their wifi contraseña says it all–comegato is the password that unlocks the Interwebs, a total riot if you add a space and catch their drift.
Breadhead, absurd, friends, as even the wheel of sustenance we purchase for tomorrow’s lunch fails, a squishy mess of sickeningly, almost-sweet dough, not quite brioche, not quite sourdough.
And, of course, this is the type of place where everything goes amiss, be it too few blankets to quell the draft or the off-rhythm crow of all that squawks and clucks through the night.
Oh, 5 AM, you cannot get here fast enough.
Where In The World Is Gwendo? 