Hurrah for Huaraz - Fake Tan For Free - 19 May 2003
Well we set off feeling a little apprehensive as the paro (strike, remember) was still in full flow and we were now trying to leave on motorised transport, having seen what they were doing to moped tricycles the day before I had visions of them trying and succeeding in pushing us over. It would not be hard letís face it. There were cars ahead of us squeezing their way at a snails pace through the narrow gap so we followed. In typical fashion half way through we were met by traffic coming the other way, no-one seemed prepared to give way. Then a chap started berating us for travelling and waving his arms at us aggressively, we pretending we did not understand, after all we are ignorant gringos. He gave up and started on shouting at someone else who he was more convinced would understand him.
I was relieved as we popped out at the end of the blockade and hit the un-congested road ahead. I looked closely back and forth as we passed the point of the shootings the day before and found nothing but fields and farmers to suggest anything but a tranquil countryside setting.
Looking at the map as route planner it looked like a little mornings jaunt over the hills on a dirt road for less than sixty miles. So we were a little confused when a bloke told us it would take 6 hours. Just how bad was this dirt! With Bertha still not handling ideally, this could be very hard work.
It soon transpired that the map was wrong it was 100 miles
(still seemed odd that it would take 6 hours) not 100km. This may not seem that much different, but when it is a dirt road that rises from sea level to 4500m and back down to 3000m it makes a difference. Into the bargain we had not planned on it taking all day, so we did not have enough water or food for a full days riding. When the sun was already over the yard arm and we met up with chap coming the other way in a bulldozer who said calmly itís only another 2 and half hours, that this was going to be a long day.I was feeling more guilty by the hour encouraging Pat over this mountain on a disabled bike through pebbled streams, loose gravel and round endless dodgy hairpin bends. And why is it that when you are slowing down to negotiate a particularly precarious corners some stupid yappy dog seems determined to try and get under your wheels.
Or a 4x4 comes the other way and comes to a scary sliding halt in front of you.The last section coming into Huaraz was enough to stress out the bravest of dirt riders. The steep downhill track had degenerated because of the recent storms and population use, there was mud, pot holes, drainage ditches running diagonally across the roads and to top it all every hazard imaginable; dogs, pigs, chickens and even a child running randomly in front switching sides without warning. On the mud and gravel trying to weave around these perils tested Pats skill and patience. He later admitted that if we had done the road in reverse he would have given up before he left the outskirts of Huaraz. And I would have agreed with him.
We were then hit with our second map issue of the day when I tried to find our selected hostel, following the Lying Planets map which was again wrong. In these situations, I know that Pat needs warning of which turns to take in advance, and he is awaiting instruction, and get stressed by knowing that I cannot give it. In the end we rolled up at somewhere else, where they very kindly let us but the bike on they parquet floor in the living room. We were stressed, tired and hungry.
There was something going off outside, a lot of drums and Andean recorders. The lying Planet had not forewarned us that we had arrived in the middle of a huge fiesta. About an hour after we had landed the road was blocked off and the area went mad.
It is hard to explain what it was like. The plaza 50m away was brimming with 10 to 20 different dancing groups, in costumes of every imaginable colour, all with feathered headdresses and accompanied by musicians. The bands of drums and Andean recorders were enriched by the tssh, tssh as the dancers stomped their legs which sported gaiters hung with some kind of rattly nuts.
We were quite delighted that there were no signs of gringos around. One bonus of the Lying Planet, I suppose. There are so many festivals in the Andes that have become must-do items on the backpacker itinerary that finding a down to earth genuine one is something of a challenge. Here we were surrounded by locals having a mad time in a totally unaffected way.
The costumes must have become more and more outrageous in recent years as there is no way that the materials can have been available for very long. So what? The point of the festival was to celebrate the creation of the local church on a site of religious significance. I wonít go into the story as even the locals cannot agree on how they came by the statue of Christ that bled real blood. We heard three different tales as to why the church is called the church of SeÒor de Soledad!
The point is that the celebration continues with vigour and although there are the usual few drunks hanging around, the point is not to get smashed like most of the other festivals seem to require. The dancing troupes performed continuously from 10 in the morning until 4 the following morning. That is all the groups performed for all of this time, not a succession of groups performing in an arena. This continues for 10 days. Remember, the altitude is about 3100 metres. Hippy and I got tired walking up the street, never mind dancing up it.
We spectated for a few days and tried to work out exactly was going on. From the balcony of the hostel we watched the main procession on the Saturday. We must have had the best place in town. Group after group passed by followed by the statue of Christ in his own little house. Initially He was carried by a group of middle aged chaps who looked somewhat doddery. The group of dancers immediately in front of the platform took over and, even though they had been dancing for 18 hours a day for eight days, they made it look easy. Their costumes surrounding the religious icon did look a little odd though.
For me the added bonus was that the townsfolk were also out in their fiesta best. The women making more of an effort then the men, but then it was mostly men dancing I suppose. The hats the heavily embroidered skirts and bright shawls made the crowds a festival of colour to compete with dancing troops.
For the rest of the time, action centred around the plaza in front of the church. There wasnít enough space for every one and so bands went off dancing around town to reappear later in the hope of getting a spot. Once established on the square, they would do a turn for a couple of hours until they could wrestle their way onto the church steps. This was their only point of rest. They now had the wait to take their place in the aisle of the church to perform for the congregation and, we assume, for the Big Fella. We joined the crowd in the church for one such performance. Of course, we had our usual debate about whether as heathens we ought to be there or not. I suppose they wonít have a chance to convert us if we donít turn up. It was really strange to watch what appeared to be a very pagan type of dancing being performed in church hour after hour. There was no sign of the priest who I had expected to be acknowledging their effort.
Hippy and I retired early to charge up our batteries as folk had told us the real action would start at midnight. Midnight came and there did not seem too much of an increase in tempo and so we dawdled over the idea of getting up. Hips had obviously got her sleepy head on and wasnít to be moved and so I ventured off alone to what was happeningÖ
If any of you have ever seen a firework display like this one then you are indeed fortunate folk. I was totally transfixed. During the afternoon we had witnessed the building of a huge bamboo tower. We had mused over itís purpose and thought it simply a decorative way of presenting offerings much as we had seen at Tarabuco in Bolivia. Nothing of the sort. This was a twenty tier behemoth of pyrotechnic madness. (message to Trish and Bry - if you ever want the firework display to be the talk of the next millennium employ a Peruvian.)
The crowd were close up underneath the tower when the blue touch paper was lit. What is remarkable is that they didnít move even then. The hugest fireworks Iíve ever seen spurted and flamed over their heads and no one seemed in the least bothered. The grand finale was a set of spinning bamboo wheels of about 18 inches in diameter that where powered off the top of the tower by about 8 downward facing rockets. I was amazed that they managed to maintain their horizontal attitude and that they all drifted harmlessly away from the crowd. Except the last one, that is. Damp squib that it was, it plopped down about 20 feet to the right of the tower amongst a large group of spectators. Was there a murmur of concern? Not one jot. I imagine that there is one disfigured person every year and that is how they keep track of the festivals over the years. ìWasnít that the year that Pablo lost his eye?î ìWhich Pablo?î
Maybe the fact that in the last 60 years the area has been devastated by 2 major disasters a mud slide in 1941 that destroyed the city and an earthquake in 1970 that killed over 70,000 people and Huaraz was almost completely levelled means that somehow a few possibly maiming stray fireworks pales into insignificance in comparison.
Whilst we were in Bolivia there were 2 mud slides each killing over 700 people, which I doubt bothered to enter the news in the UK whilst the Iraq war was on. But it does bring it home when it is on your doorstep, how harsh life is for many. And with such uncontrollable deadly disasters happening in peoples lifetimes why they may cling on to religion to try to have an influence on their own survival. This may be why the fiestas are relished when life can be so quickly extinguished.
In amongst the revelry was of course the last match of the season, which a report is on the website. We had planned to walk to the thermal baths that day, on the basis that whatever the result good or ill we could celebrate or wallow in self-pity.
We went back to the hostel to fetch bathing gear, grinning from ear to ear when we met up with a guide, Calixto, who was willing to take us with horses on a 3 day trip over the mountains to a set of ruins called Chavin. Now we could get to these by dirt road, but excess travelling on dirt with an ill bike did not seem wise, and our reason for coming to Huaraz is that the Andes here are meant to be some of the most beautiful in the range and May is the month of wild flowers. The bonus of being able to ride horses when we got too knackered at high altitude was all we needed to convince us. Even better it was all at a reasonable fee of $25 per day for the two of us, and we were to supply food. So it looked like we were off - with a dayís leeway to get in supplies.
Everything was looking good as we walked to the baths, the sun was shining, Bolton were in the premiership for another year, and in a couple of days we had trek booked with horses that meant that we might even make it all the way.
The valley road was lined with restaurants, all full. This was the low season ìwhatís going on?î Turned out that every place was full of families celebrating Motherís Day (confusingly on a different day in this part of the world) The baths were in a comfortable hotel set back from the road with nice little garden, butÖthe water was excrement brown (Oooh, she canít half paint a picture with words) and just below tepid. We swam anyway and it did do wonders for our skin. Some local lads were intrigued by how I did my back stroke and made efforts to copy the action, mostly unsuccessfully. During my instruction I became increasingly self-conscious of the fact that I havenít shaved my armpits in weeks and the Peruvians are a particularly hairless race. But if they noticed they were too polite to comment or too busy laughing at each of their mates successive attempts to do back stroke. Nothing could spoil today!