Peruvian Highlands (Huancayo)

Sunday, August 03, 2008

I have been in Huancayo for 2 days now. I arrived on Friday night feeling sick and tired due to the 8 hour bus ride in the last row of the bus and the altitude change. Huancayo is only around 4,000 meters, but we passed other towns at 5,000 meters or higher, which made me sick. Light-headed and nauseous, I stumbled off the bus at 10 p.m. to stumble happily into my Mom’s arms. She had been waiting at the bus station for me for the past hour or so even though we had planned to meet at the hostel. Grabbing a taxi, we rode to the hostel known as La Casa de La Abuela which was an ancient house with wood floors and antiques covering every corner and cranny. There was no water that evening, as there is every evening in Huancayo so the prospect of a shower was out…as it is, it was quite cold in the highlands and I was not incredibly keen on exposing myself to the elements. Water is only available in Huancayo from early morning to lunch time. The water supply is low and the city has no water from early afternoon to the wee hours of the morning.

This morning, we woke at the leisurely hour of 10 a.m. and I sat bundled in 5 wool blankets reading The Count of Monte Cristo, enjoying the luxury of relaxing under the weight of warm covers. Even though I’ve been here since Friday night, my altitude sickness is only just wearing off. I no longer feel ill, but I am still quite tired and my legs feel like lead. After organizing our clothes and washing some socks and shirts, we showered in the bitter cold water available only in the morning, and prepared to leave for the market. We are staying in Miguel Torres’s house in Pio Pata, a suburb of Huancayo. Mom met Miguel through couchsurfing. His intelligent eyes and low-key demeanor are a pleasant complement to our day as he provides happy company but in a relaxed manner which allows us to do as we please in his home without encroaching on his own busy schedule. He is not hugely concerned with being the perfect host which is more comfortable for Mom and I as we are both “do it yourself” types and feel more comfortable in this atmosphere. Miguel’s wife and 5 year-old son live in Lima as the life and education is considerably better than that in the highlands. He visits whenever possible.

Wandering through the market, we bypassed vendors selling shoes and clothes to explore the weighty fruit stands and small tables of algarrobina and dried goods. Algarrobina is a molasses like syrup that comes from the Algarrobin tree in northern Peru, such as Piura. Artisans sold wool ponchos, purses, and hats of alpaca and wool. Hand-etched gourds lined tables, the stories of the harvest and Santiago fiestas carved into their hard skins. Gypsies selling hand-made necklaces with shells, teeth, bones, and stones from the jungle and highlands sat on blankets next to the curb.

In lieu of the Santiago festivities, Mom had made friends in a small village on the mountain outside of Huancayo. After lunch, we took a taxi up a rocky road for 30 minutes into Cochas Grande for the family gathering. Climbing out of the taxi at a corner when it could not ascend any further, we began to wander up the road in search of a familiar face to direct us to the right house. We had no idea where we were going, and I had no idea who we were looking for, but somehow, with my Mother, everything just seems to work. Sure enough, we rounded a corner and we bumped into the exact woman we were looking for as if she had planned to meet us at the corner at that time. Smiling and kissing each of us, she grabbed our hands and led us up the hill and through a gate bordered with mud walls too high to see over. We were greeted with the cheering sight of sixty people dancing and drinking merrily to the sound of saxophones and violins playing energetic music traditional for the Santiago festival. The dances were simple shuffles, almost like jogging in place, a challenge for the colorfully dressed women wearing high heels in the rocky dusty ground. At first, the dance was tiring, but after standing still in the bitter wind for 30 minutes, I suddenly began to appreciate the value of a beer and an energetic dance.

Una Cervesa por Santiago

Santiago is a celebration of life and fertility of livestock—typically cattle, sheep, and llamas. Animals decorated with colorful ribbons were dragged into the center of the festivities, live music competing for attention over the brawls of each calf and bleat of each sheep, as the host fed each wine and coca leaves for fertility. An ornery bull whose respectable horns tossed and turned furiously when the glass wine bottle was forced into his mouth did not deter the stubborn Peruvians; six men joined in a game of dodge the horns, force feeding wine without being hospitalized. The coca leaves are the very same leaves which are used to make cocaine—just without the arduous chemical process. Old women in hand-embroidered wool skirts and felt hats decorated with flowers and fruits sat cross-legged on the ground chewing the dried coca leaves, grinning numbly and gossiping amongst themselves. I approached them and sat chatting with them in the grass as they smiled toothily at me, green leaves covering their gold caps. Glasses of Peruvian wine, beer, and chicha morada (purple corn refresco) were passed in my direction, each person ensuring that I always had a full glass—I learned quickly to refuse their slightly overbearing hospitality lest I had too much.

Tuesday, August 05, 2008

Walking to the morning market at 7:30 a.m. I was startled to find that only one stand was open. Asking the dark women selling vegetables when the cheese and fruit vendors would arrive, I was disappointed to realize that I was 30 minutes early (not accounting for Peruvian “punctuality”) and that Mom and I would have to delay our morning plans to go find a Caldo shop and eat sheep or chicken soup for breakfast. Grabbing a taxi, we rode to the town center to meet Rocilla, a smiling, amiable Huancayan and our private taxi for our trip to Al Nevado del Huaytapallana. We met Rocilla last night when we went to help Miguel with his English class and invited her to join us on our outing. Our cab driver, Fidel, announced that he needed to grab a bite to eat before we left, so we stopped at a typical Peruvian eatery overstuffed with tables and diners devouring hot platters of seco del pollo with rice, potatoes, and Anis tea.

Huatapallana is a 2 hour drive from Huancayo, up a steep, narrow gravel road squeezed between the ascending slopes as if resting between a large woman’s thighs. Fidel pointed out sights along the way, chattering away on his radio with a fellow taxi driver about the odd American women traveling with the Peruvian girl. Stopping the cab in front of a crowded general shop, Fidel explained that we needed to purchase coca leaves and sugar cane liquor for the altitude and for energy. Though skeptical, Mom and I knew no other way to battle the cold, thin aired peaks of the Andes and we purchased the suggested items. Andean campesinos chew coca leaves and drink the cane liquor (referred to as “combustible”) to give them the energy to work without resting or eating. The Incas chewed coca leaves as well, using it not only as a meal replacement, but also to numb their mouths in order to remove and replace teeth with gold and silver nuggets.

Arriving at a small restaurant shrouded in an endless fog and wrapped with swirling snow, we placed orders for lunch, bundled our heads in scarves and chullos and hit the trail. Walking up a hill, I paused to catch my breath and admire the pastoral scenes of snow-covered sheep and llamas grazing amongst lichen spotted rocks and wiry grass. Realizing that I had only walked 20 meters, I groaned inwardly, knowing that my lingering soroche (altitude sickness) would not take long to hit as we ascended the mountain. My legs strong from working in the field at the station had no trouble ascending the slippery rocks and loose soils, but my heart and lungs were on a different track. My temporal and occipital lobes audibly pounding with blood, screaming for oxygen, begged me to stop the insanity of the marathon that should have just been a pleasant day hike to a receding Andean glacier. Crossing a windy saddle, we began to descend, picking up our pace to warm our cold toes. Stopping just off the wind’s main path, we admired a smoky lagoon meekly resting under an intimidating snow peak obscured by currents of fog racing around and down its impossibly steep slopes. Fidel removed the bottle of cane liquor from his pack and after giving us each a capful, began to dump the innocently clear liquid into his bare hands, tossing it toward the mountain and muttering quietly. Answering our confused looks, he explained that he was chasing the fog away…sure enough, the fog disappeared for five minutes, exposing the stunning crest of the mountain rising from depths as deep as Hell.

Posing for photos with the grand snow peak and mysterious lagoon as a backdrop, our smiling eyes suddenly widened at the not so distant roar of thunder which echoed ominously off the rocky peaks. Though we were just over half-way through our hike, Fidel explained that we would need to return. Once it starts raining, he explained, it will pour, the fog will thicken, and we will likely lose the trail and definitely get hypothermia. Not doubting any of what he said as he appeared to prefer to continue the awe-inspiring trek, we turned back. We had already hiked over 600 meters and only had around 500 more, but the trail lead straight into the thunder clouds—being on the same shelterless mountain as an electric storm was enough and we felt no need to intentionally walk toward the thunder. An hour later, bundled inside the drafty restaurant eating steaming platters of trout caught from a lagoon that morning, we were grateful for our quick decision to return. The other vehicles on the same trek were long gone (though more likely due to hiking at 4,600 meters than the thunder) leaving our ice-covered vehicle alone to brave the pounding rain and sleet.

Finishing our lunches, we piled into the taxi to return to Huancayo. Small groups of colorfully dressed highlanders, or witches, dotted the occasional hillside, sacrificing cuy (guinea pigs) and fruits to the gods of the mountains. Rounding a sharp corner, we came upon a large cargo truck loaded with fruits and people from the jungle traveling to Huancayo to sell their goods. The truck was stopped in front of a bridge consisting of eucalyptus trunks tossed casually over trout stream 15 feet below the road. The truck’s narrow bald tires could not cross the bridge without slipping between the logs. Fidel hopped out of the taxi to help the small group of men readjusting the logs forming the bridge and wedging small borders in between to stabilize the ground. Thirty minutes later, the men agreed that the bridge was as good as it would get and began to direct the truck over the wet logs. Two young girls sitting atop the truck watched the spectacle with grins, pointing at the men and the creek below. Just as the front tires reached the opposite bank and the back tires began to rely on the newly constructed bridge, the wet soil which held the logs began to shift and the eucalyptus trunk slid apart allowing the truck’s bald tire to drop several inches. Leaning dangerously, the truck’s engine screamed as the driver gunned it, no doubt clinging to a rosary dangling from his rearview mirror and the grinning girls atop the truck adopted looks of terror. Pitching and turning, leaning one way and another, the truck’s tires suddenly found life and shot up the bank, stopping when the bridge had been crossed. Unaware that every person was holding his breath along the bank or in the cab, a collective sigh spread through the spectators—no doubt the people inside the truck were still holding their breath. Unable to see out of the metal walls or tarp roof, they could only feel the weight of the truck rocking just too close to death (or at least a trip to the hospital). Now that the truck was across, we were next, though our trip was uneventful compared to what we had just witnessed.