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Link #19
9 - 30 August, 2000
Chimbote to Cusco, Peru ( 379 km)
The road from Chimbote up into the Peruvian Andes is a nasty road. We
navigated this road for well over 100 kilometers and apart from gaining
over 1000 vertical meters, it had not changed much. It was like trying
to ice skate on river rock. It was dry. It was infernally hot. It was
windy. It was dusty. It was highly vibrational. It was run by thick black
clouds of tiny sand flies that bite and remove pieces of flesh three times
larger than they are. In short, it was nasty.
The one good thing that can be said about that road is that it made everyone
else's shoes look almost as bad as mine.
After over seven months rolling around in southern hemisphere dirt, we've
fancy ourselves gourmands of grime. We've had dust baths, dirt drinks,
mud wraps, gravel sandwiches, and many a tierra firma facial. And yet,
never was the shower water blacker than after two full days on that nasty
road.
And then, as if not nasty enough, John came down with a nasty case of
dysentery. Of course, at first we didn't know what it was, and so he tried
to cycle through it. After champing through the first 15km of the second
day, he collapsed on the side of the road. Carolyn tended to him and they
caught the next bus. Nicole and I decided to push on.
We met back up with them that night in Huallanca. John looked worse.
The next day he was no better. We decided Huallanca, a town which can't
be found in any guidebooks and isn't even on most maps, was not the best
place for a nice guy struck with a nasty case of dysentery. John and Carolyn
took a taxi up the road to Caraz and again Nicole and I opted to bike
it.
Out of Huallanca, the road winds through about 12 large switchbacks,
gaining a good 500 meters on its way over the Cordillera Negra.
At the top of the switchbacks, the road tunnels to the other side of the
ridge where it continues to punch through the mountain some 35 times.
Those tunnels were godsends for us - each one a brief respite from the
blazing sun. Below the snaking road roars the Rio Santa, the same river
we had followed since the coast, two days ago. Cañon de Pato
it's called, but in the realm of roadwork, it's a Rembrandt. After
about 20km, the road turns quasi-paved. Another 5km later, it's unquestionably
paved and fast.
Towards the end of the day, we started to catch glimpses of white peaks
poking out above the arid frontal range and into an azure sky. Even from
a great distance, the summits appeared unnaturally tall. The Cordillera
Blanca. The White Range. No where on earth, save the Himalaya, is
there a taller, more massive set of mountains. A sub-range of the Andes,
the Cordillera runs more or less north-south and contains 50 peaks over
5700 meters (18700 ft). Running parallel with the Cordillera on its western
edge is the Callejón de Huaylas, a 180km canyon formed by
the Rio Santa, known by the natives as Hatun Mayu or Big River.
Small and now not-so-small towns on the valley floor serve as staging
points for backpackers and climbers from around the world.
* * *
At the northern end of the Callejón is the town of Caraz (2290m)
where we rested and tended to John's dysentery. The Hostal Chavin, just
off the Plaza de Armas, was our home for a few days. One of the evenings
our host, Walter, showed us his black and white photos and told us quite
a story.
Over 30 years ago Walter was serving in the Peruvian army and posted
on the coast, about 200km from his home town of Caraz. On the afternoon
of May 31, 1970, he and his comrades felt a tremor and looked east to
the Andes. If a tremor could be felt on the coast, it could only mean
a serious earthquake in the Cordillera. That same afternoon a group of
twenty of them set off with packs full of extra provisions. Less than
halfway there, the roads became flooded and impassable. They continued
on feet. Apart from a four hour rest, they walked for 72 hours straight.
Only four of them made it across the Cordillera Negra and down into the
Callejon. In the flooded town of Caraz they learned that the earthquake
had triggered a massive avalanche on the west face of the 6768m Huascarán
Norte. Worst hit was the town of Yungay, 15km up canyon from Caraz. Upon
hearing this, Walter set out at once, propelled solely by the adrenaline
that only comes from a loved one in peril. The house of his fiancée
and her family was in Yungay. When he got there, he saw firsthand the
tragedy of one of the world's worst avalanches. Some 15 million cubic
meters of ice and granite flowing at about 300km/h dropped over 3 vertical
kilometers on its way to Yungay, 14km away. In a town of a little less
than 8,000 inhabitants, there were fewer than 150 survivors. His fiancée
and her family were not among them.
That night we went to bed sobered and reconsidering the difficulty of
the road we had cycled from the coast, the same road that Walter had walked.
* * *
A few more days of sleep, countless cups of tea, and a strong course
of antibiotics put John on the upswing. Hedging on his improved health,
we made plans for a trek into the Cordillera Blanca. Nicole and Carolyn
spent an afternoon combing the local market for lightest food they could
find. After talking to Alberto at Pony's Expeditions, we decided on a
four day hike up the Quebrada Santa Cruz. Alberto outfitted us
with a couple packs and a map, but could not come up with any size 12
boots.
From Caraz we took a bus up the shoulder of the cordillera to the small
pueblo of Cashapampa. We still had a few hours of daylight left so we
decided to check out the thermal baths that Alberto had told us about.
It took about two hours to get there: one hour walking and another hour
asking directions. One thing that we've learned along the way is that
you've got to ask three to 12 times for directions in any given stretch
of road or trail. Then you take that sample, drop the extremes on either
end, and interpolate a trajectory based on the remaining replies. Remembering
a little high school trigonometry helps. That method usually gets you
there, but rarely on time.
At the baths there was a group of five twenty-something Peruvian guys
in the main pool. From the big splashes and heavy breathing, you could
tell they didn't know what they were doing. Being former competition swimmers
and instructors, Nicole and Carolyn felt obliged to at least try to straighten
out their strokes. I agreed to help translate. After they got over the
shock of the whitey white of the whities, Nicole and Carolyn coaxed two
of them passed their machismo and into the shallow end. At first the Peruvians
showed promise. They seemed to understand the basics of freestyle, and
windmilled well out of the water. But transferring their new stroke to
the water was not so promising. They resumed their battle against death
by drowning, thrashing wildly and then coming up gulping for air. Rotating
their heads slowly to the side, Nicole and Carolyn showed them how to
breathe while swimming. Again, thrash, gulp... thrash, gulp...thrash.
"Breathe! Breathe!" Nicole and Carolyn screamed loud enough
for their students to hear underwater. More thrashing. More gulping. On
my way to the sideline I recommended they try screaming in Spanish. With
renewed vigor, the teachers yelled "Aspire! Aspire!"
for a few minutes while their pupils resumed thrashing but gulped with
increased earnest. After that, everyone retreated to the pool side, tired
and breathing irregularly. It was then that John suggested a game of Marco
Polo.
* * *
The next morning we started hiking up the Quebrada Santa Cruz, but were
totally unprepared for what we came up against. It was a steep climb,
but not too tough. The sun was bright, but not too hot. The packs were
heavy, but still very manageable. John's bowels rumbled, but he was able
to keep his remnant dysentery in check. It was the scenery that did us
in.
Without hesitation, the mountains we witnessed during those four days
were the most beautiful, most dramatic mountains I have ever seen.
On the morning of our second day, I got up early to catch the sunrise.
A glacier-melt lake, Jatumcocha, stretched out before me. The upper
reaches of the high canyon walls were just getting their first rays. No
one else had awoke yet and I was half sleeping, half scribbling madly,
trying to record some of what had so impassioned me:
Dawn flaunts her stuff, turning everything she touches their best
color. She is a glorious giver of beauty; her lieges shine back at her
in apparent appreciation, loyalty, perhaps even love. The valley floor
takes on a yellow-gold, its grasses waving and swirling in the alpine
winds. Dotting the valley floor are massive granite boulders, blinding
white with black pepper speckles offering reprieve. The rough-cut mountainsides
appear to be on fire, giving off every shade of brown with reds and
oranges added for spectral effect. To the west a determined full moon
hangs low on the horizon, about to collide with a distant ridge line.
Waterfalls cascade into the valley and ever so slowly into the streams
which course along the floor and gradually fill Jatumcocha. Above the
falls tower sheer peaks cloaked in snow and ice, glaciers hanging off
their sides. The jagged, mean looking summit above me is Quitaraju,
reaching an impressive 6040 meters. Behind it, hidden from view is one
of the Cordillera's true jewels and famed "most beautiful mountain
in the world," Alpamayo. I hope to walk up to its base today and
get a better look at her.
Later that day, we did walk up a spur trail to the base of Alpamayo.
What a mountain! Panoramic
(170KB). In the distance we could make out a couple climbers making their
way up a final couloir on the south ridge. They would make their camp
on the other side and spend the next day climbing a good ten pitches of
70-80º ice to the summit. Someday I want to come back and see that
other side.
After shooting a few Clik! disks worth of photos, we descended back to
the main trail and hiked another hour or so to the last camp before the
big pass. We pitched our tiny tents at the base of a massive hunk of rock,
snow, and ice, Taulliraju. Soon we were sitting Indian style sipping
hot soup and ogling the cordillera that surrounded us on three sides.
At 4250m the sky was cloudless and as blue as blue gets. An Andean condor
swept the ridge lines and soared down the valley searching for a late
afternoon snack. Again, we were overwhelmed by our relative position on
this great big earth.
On the third day, we thrashed and gulped over Punta Union pass at 4750m,
or just under 16,000ft. From the pass we climbed another 100 meters up
by traversing a rocky outcrop ridge. From there, we had an astounding
360º view. Panoramic
(200KB).
The thought of a long descent down the backside of the pass finally tore
us away from that majestic perch. Four hours later, we made camp in a
broad meadow divided by a slowly flowing river. Oak looking trees with
flaky paper thin bark lined the shore. Cattle and burros grazed in the
opposite end of the meadow. Besides the animals, we had the place to ourselves.
After a spastic bath in the river, we finished up the last of our rations,
made tea, and watched the sunset. We played cards until the cold got too
cold to bear and then feel asleep gazing at the southern constellations.
The next morning we hiked the last five hours to the pueblo of Vaqueria
and caught a bus back to Caraz.
For more Cordillera Blanca photos, check out the Photo
Gallery.
* * *
Upon returning to Caraz, we stayed one more night at Walter's place before
loading the bikes back up again. The following day we pedaled up the Callejón
to Huaraz. Being the largest town in the area and the chief jumping off
spot for trips into the Cordillera, we figured it might have descent bike
parts and big shoes. My rear rim had developed cracks in 10 of its 32
spoke holes and the rear hub was sounding like a Tonka truck left in the
sandbox for the winter. Again, we figured wrong. The bike shops turned
out to be mostly dirt floor affairs with plenty of used parts and stickers,
but not much else. As for the big shoes, well even the store that's known
for carrying grandote sizes didn't have anything past size 10½.
When the local tourism board told me I couldn't go around soliciting large
shod tourists for their shoes, we reasoned that it was time to go.
With the sands of time running out on John & Carolyn, we decided
to bus and fly our way to Cusco. We arrived August 23.
Archaeological capital of the Americas, Cusco is the continent's oldest
continuously inhabited city. Cusco was founded in the 12th century by
the first Inca, Manco Capac, the son of the sun. According to legend,
the sun instructed Manco to walk the earth with a golden staff in search
of a homeland. Upon entering the modern day Urubamba valley, Manco plunged
his golden staff into the ground until it disappeared. This point was
qosqo, or "the earth's navel" in Quechua, and it was
here that he founded what would become the center of the Western hemisphere's
greatest empire. At its height in 1533, the Inca empire stretched from
northern Chile to southern Colombia. Then the conquistadors led by Francisco
Pizarro arrived hungry for Inca gold and silver and the great empire came
to an abrupt end.
We walked Cusco's cobblestone streets and paths, marveling at the Inca
foundations on most buildings. We took in a few museums and strolled through
the Inca ruins that lie on a hill overlooking the town. We soaked up the
warm afternoon sun from park benches in the Plaza de Armas. We visited
the historic cathedral built from Inca stones and saw the massive Marcos
Zapata painting hanging in the corner of the cathedral, a Cusco school
depiction of the Last Supper scene with Christ and his disciples eating
the Inca delicacy of roasted cuy, or guinea pig. We also filled
up on good meals, strong coffee, and Cusquena lager. Like Cuenca,
Ecuador, Cusco deftly fuses it's historic past with it's cosmopolitan
present, creating an alluring city that draws hundreds of thousands of
visitors every year.
The day after our friend Genevieve, whom we had met in Quito, arrived
in Cusco, we set off on the famed Inca trail. A few days, forty kilometers,
and a few high mountain passes later, we crested the trail's final hill
and below us, glowing in the late afternoon light, was Machu Picchu. For
us, it was everything everyone has ever said and more. Rather than talk
around it, we'll leave you with a few photos to enjoy.
* * *
"I mean, I do Tae-Bo all the time at home.
I don't know why I feel so out of shape here."
- conversation overheard between
two American girls while
walking the ruins of Ollataytambo, Peru at about 7,000ft asl.
On the way back from Machu Picchu, we stopped over in Ollataytambo, a
wonderful small town with delicious pancakes and less frequented, but
no less interesting Inca ruins. From there we returned to Cusco. We spent
the last couple days with John and Carolyn exploring a few local markets
and some more ruins.
For all the added challenges of doubling your travel team, it was a difficult
good-bye. Amazing to think back over the distances, from the icy Volcano
Cayambe refuge to the Pan-American Cabin, from fine dining in Cuenca to
morning oatmeal in the Cordillera Blanca, from dysentery in the desert
to euphoria at the Sun Gate of Machu Picchu, all fantastic and unforgettable
memories.
As Carolyn noted in a recent email, "Those were true tears at the
Cusco airport."
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