Huaraz times

Huaraz is situated at 3050m and surrounded by 6000m peaks in a continuous fold of mountains.

Every day the valley is hot and sunny, with a sky from an episode of the Simpsons. The parallels don't stop there as it is an odd place.

I like the view from my room. It looks across the market I can site and watch the world go by, it never fails to amaze me. Directly across the street are open fronted shops, from which rows of yellow plucked chickens are hung by the head. Duck your head under them and you also see one also doubles as a video shop. Above it is a hairdressing school, just a chair and a mirror in an otherwise empty room. In the morning I watch boxes of clucking feathers come in, they kill them in the back, behind a tarpaulin. Yesterday I walked by and noticed you can have a tattoo done in the same place. The buzz of the needle, the stench of stale blood, body parts hanging from hooks, I think I will pass on that one. I watched the guy wince, a freshly etched jesus was bleeding on his chest.

Laying in bed I can hear guinea pigs squeak on the street below ready for the days BBQ. Along with the man who chants "oranges 10 for 1 sol" from 6am to night fall. Never changes, never says anything else.

From the window I can see dried lizards, mobile phones, pyramids of potatoes and piled in little towers yellowing rounds of cheese. The cheese lady sits in a round hat on the curb amongst the combi vans and the blue smoky buses and in her craggy hands scrapes the dirty orange bits from that days unsold cheeses.

Watched a man at the gas station sitting in a pool of petrol, sawing through a 3" petrol pipe, fuel gushing from it. People walk through the fuel soaked gravel, vehicles pulled up to refuel. Took all day for the pool to evaporate. It came apparent over a few days that they were slowly replacing the fuel pumps.

The river that carries a sea of plastic bottles, acrid smoke from the burning river banks, the smell of rotting flesh momentarily halting your breath. Strolling in the street market, ducking under the low jutting canopies, buckets full of brightly coloured salsa, underfoot the coagulated goo of animal and vegetable remains sticking to your soles. But looking up to the pure white mountain peaks, framed in an untainted pastel sky and you can watch them catch the low afternoon sun turning them to peach ice cream sundaes; this is what I can remember.

Northern Peru (re-edit)

Needless to say the last crossing was a bit remote. Did not figure in my guide book and my map was a hand sketch. The main reason for going this way was it sounded interesting. I was quite surprised that it led me to somewhere that was not only beutiful but was full of pre-inca remains.

I used Chachapoyas as base to explore. I gather it is not on the tourist trail, but is surrounded by some amazing ancient hill fortresses and burial sites wedged high up inaccessible cliffs.

Went on an organised four day trek, broad snaking river valleys, horse riding through the jungled mountains, trekking on ancient inca paths through misty cloud forests. The downside was we had to live like the locals. The only shower I had was in a little hamlet next to the "main street", with the locals laughing at the gringo trying to balance on a plank of wood under the icy stream water. Oh I kept my shorts on in case you were wondering.

The food was interesting.I cant believe I was not ill I cant fully describe the kitchens, wooden shacks half burnt down from the open fire. Black pots, mud floors, dirt, dogs and chickens everywhere. The food was mainly rice and sweetcorn, but once had a chickens head in my soup! Ever eaten stuff and tried not to let it touch your tongue. One place as we were trying to eat there was an odd loud banging come chopping sound and from round the corner a bloke walks out with a freshly severed cows head. I tried to get a photo but the smell made me gag.

In a remote forest hamlet watched a game of football. Though the pre-match prep was puffing on fags, taking swigs from the local fire water and stuffing their cheeks with coca leaves. I have never seen a football player shove his pockets with coca leaves before running on to the pitch before.

The region was very beautiful. The valleys had not a sign of human life, no roads, houses, lights, power lines. In the four days we never had electricity. The night sky was perfectly black not even a distant glow of humanity. The people welcomed us with smiles and no outstretched hands.

Decided against journeying to the Amazon, bitten enough by mozzies, took the opposite direction to Tujillo. A pretty town surrounded by archeological sites, huge mud brick pyramids and forgotten cities in the desert. Bleak scenery, endless desert and dunes, mountains rising in the background and then this massive city. All built with mud bricks, walls towering 7m high in places, intricate designs and motifs cut into the mud.

Into Peru

In the morning waited at the side of the road surrounded by fields, watched the sun come up. Bumped along a dirt track road, bus bobbed and weaved through great landslips that had rolled massive boulders and tons of mud across the little track. Slightly concerned by how fresh the slips were. Occasionally the road would go through small rivers, or is it the rivers are going through the road? Eventually the bus suspension gave up, tilting alarmingly every time we went round a lefthander. The passengers had to switch to the right to keep it upright(ish). The horrendous crashing sound as the suspension tried to come through the floor was a little stressful. The bus finally expired in a tiny mountain village, so we waited for the only other bus to come by.

Ended up at Zumba a military outpost that felt a little edgy, so I chanced my arm and took the last truck out heading towards the border. The "road" was more like a farm track running through thick mountain forest. People got off at tiny hamlets leaving me alone in the back to watch the sun set behind the mountains and dodge the branches that whipped across the truck´s open sides. Then from all directions para militaries jumped from the forest brandishing machine guns and surrounded the truck. It was a local army unit who were looking to top up their pay.
Eventually arrived a friendly border crossing, had to go the immigration guy´s house to wake him up. Knocked the taxi driver down to a reasonable figure and continued on into the night. Then felt guilty. If the last road was a farm track this was like a quarry path. Constantly wriggling between refrigerator sized boulders, the endless drumming of the corrugated path for an hour and half. Never in a straight line for more than a few meters. I could not believe anyone would take a car down there. I had to admire the driver and found a new respect for Toyota Corollas.

Over nighted in a Peruvian town had one small problem no one in town would change dollars. Managed to eventually change enough to enable me to get to a town with a cash machine. Only that did not leave me enough money for food, so that day I had one orange, two toffees and when I got really hungry, raided my first aid kit for a cough sweet. The scenery was strange, flooded valleys, oxen ploughing paddy fields, tuk-tuks clogging the streets. Did I take a wrong turn somewhere?

Travelled all day again, still on dirt tracks, clouds of choking dust, too hot to keep the windows closed, too dusty to leave them open. When the bus overtook, the wall of dust made guess work of where the highway might be. Arrived late went straight to bank, the only ATM was out of order. I had left about one pound in local currency, which went quite far. You can get five bread rolls for 17 pence!

Hiking and stuff

Quilotoa loop

In Latacunga found a scrubby bit of ground next to the bus station and had a picnic. Almost missed the bus as it blasted its horn to get us moving. Hilly scenery, fields perched at 45 degrees. Jumped in the back of a pick up, bouncing along waving at kids, mountains, ravines, women in traditional dress, pork pie hats, brightly coloured shawls. Dropped off in Quilotoa (3854m), tiny hamlet, bleak, windy, clouds billowing across the mountain. The primitive hostel provided thick blankets, a pile of wood and a stove in our room. Toasty warm in front of the fire.

During the day hiked down to the center of the volcano, which held an emerald lake. We hiked the mountain ridge for five hours which circled the lake. The path was loose and sandy, great rocks came away in your hands. The path shrinking to just a few centimeters with precipitous drops either side. Later lay in a field, relaxing in the sun and saw a cloud stop and go back the way it came. The winds are very strange here.

Worst evening meal ever. A bowl of Potatoes boiled until dry, heaped with spaghetti and topped with a scrambled omelet, and not a drop of sauce or veg. Strangely the family had it again for breakfast. They must of liked it.

Hiked all the next day through a mountainous gorge to Chugchilan a little village on the edge of the cloud forest. Sheep grazing amongst the flowers, the sun had come out and the wind had dropped, fields of maize, donkeys munching and as we walked down amongst this remote mountain scenery we were joined by a chap who proceeded to play his trombone. The various donkeys in valley also joined in as a chorus. Bit surreal really.

Got back to Quito, after no alcohol for a while, got quickly hammered on the free rum and coke, but met a really cool girl called Rachel, hippy chick needless to say and she gave me a jar of marmite - neat.

Went to Baños and did some great solo hikes, so steep I could barely keep my feet, not sure if walking or falling. My favourite was a donkey path, loose rocks, lots of mud. The dry surface would break enveloping my foot in brown sticky liquid goo. Plantations of tree tomatoes dangling like vines. Massive brightly coloured insects, flies the size of cigarette butts, giant beetles, spiders, surrounded by so many butterflies and all manner of plants. Every time I stopped I saw something new.

The path got smaller and smaller the higher i went, out of the shade of the forest the heat was stifling, awesome views. Eventually the path ran into an meadow which was deceptive. The field looked like an even blanket of ankle deep grass, except it was hiding the most uneven of uneven ground. It was like walking in snow, one minute you are standing on top the next waist deep, except there were big spiders strung between the stalks.

Hired a mountain bike on a hot day, peddling along I came through a cool mist and saw a dam blast huge columns of spray up into the air. Breathing in deeply the cool moist air I noticed the brown colour of the river. Then the very familiar smell of excrement. Did not feel so refreshed.

Some great biking, waterfalls and dirt tracks, except I had to go through a tunnel. No lighting, filthy water pouring from the roof, the passage totally flooded, no footpath and just my luck I get a bloody great bus appearing up my arse belching out black smoke. Luckily I had my head torch on as there was no room for it to pass.

Watched a lady come out of her restaurant, bend down and start sharpening her carving knife on the curb stone in the street. Ran her thumb down it and return to her chopping. I decided not to eat there.

Caught the train from Riobamba, sat on the roof and watched the scenery go by. Kids and dogs running after the train. It´s 6 am and people are coming out of their homes to wave. Should try this at home, it make the journeys much more interesting.

Chilled out in Vilcambamba after stopping in the pretty colonial town of Cuenca. The mountains were drier and edges sharper, by eye I could watch each giant ridge endlessly subdivide to minisule little rivuletes honed by the passage of water.
After several hours hiking on such a mountain ridge I came to point no wider than my backside and pitched down at 45 degrees. It was too far to return so I cheated and slid along on my bottom, until I ended up sitting on a small bolder with my legs dangled into space. Remembering that the ridge was made of nothing more than dried mud I shifted fairly quickly. Later I watched a farmer branding bulls. That night had a perfect clear night sky and saw both the northern and southern constellations with the milky way arching from horizon to horizon.

World cup football

Saturday afternoon, walked down the boulevard to the stadium. Wembley like atmosphere, full of people, street stalls and party like atmosphere. Picked up a team shirt for a couple of dollars and got a ticket from one of the touts.

People lowered buckets from the back of the stadium for kids to fill with bottles of beer to avoid the security checks. No seats here, nor isles, two hours before the game every conceivable surface was covered in yellow shirted fans. A blimp zipped over our heads in a drunken fasion, streamers were thrown at the police until they backed off to a safe distance. The temprature rose to 30 C. There was a battle royal to gain some shade, holding on to the giant football shirt passing overhead. Fireworks, drums, score board clock did not work, drank frothy beer and walked back to free rum and coke all night. Ecuador had beaten Argentina 2-0.

Climbing poem

This is a poem about climbing, which I think there are few of. I found in a climbing book, I thought it applied in other situations. Perhaps it partly explains why anyone would put themselves through such torture to reach the top.

One cannot stay on the summit forever -
One has to come down again.
So why bother in the first place? Just this

What is above knows what is below -
But what is below does not know
what is above.

One climbs, one sees -
One desends and sees no longer -
But one has seen!

There is an art of conducting one´s self in
the lower regions by the memory of
what one saw higher up.

When one can no longer see,
One does at least still know.

Rene Daumal