Trekking With Calixto - What a Huanca - 24 May 2003
Across the Andes by foot (OK so we cheated on horseback a bit)
A note on ablutions
Weíre off
The rain cometh
A brighter looking future
All down hill from here
Chavin, built by Huancas
Warm and then Hot Springs
The ìeasyî way back
Across the Andes by foot (OK so we cheated on horseback a bit)
Dawn was thinking about breaking when we arose to meet our guide. He had kindly arranged to come up from his home village of Olleros to meet us (he obviously considered us incapable of taking a simple bus ride by ourselves) but this meant that we would be forced out of bed in time to meet him. Hippy is not her best at this time of day and claims that there is, in fact, only one five oí clock in each day. She was even less pleased when he arrived puffing and panting up the hill tardy by 45 minutes.
Happier now that we were on our way and with the fact that Calixto, for that was our guideís name, had shown promise by picking up the heaviest of the three bags, we route marched down to catch a minibus. Poor Hippy got jammed in the corner of the back seat and I was alongside her with my knees poking out into the aisle.
The Peruvian morph can best be described as short. Thus, even though our seats were by no means the worst on the bus, the height of the roof was insufficient to cope with my unusually long neck. Poor Hippy had the corner of the seat jammed into her back and so after 40 minutes on this torture rack neither of us was really in the mood for walking, never mind high altitude trekking.
At least we had a bit of a break back at our guideís house while he arranged the saddles and stuff on the 2 horses and the donkey which were to be our companions and faithful servants for the next few days. We had a cup of tea which was, shall we say, yellow and lukewarm. Use your imagination. It seems appropriate that we had a pee before we set off. Comes of being brought up facing long car journeys, you know. Calixto pointed to the corner of the yard when asked the ìbaÒoî question and I guess it would be remiss not to describe the yard at this point. Approximately 25yards long and 8 wide with an approximate 1 metre end to end slope, this is the home to his collection of mountain animals. At times his hire fleet is supplemented by his herd of 20 llamas. Here, then, was a goodly collection of assorted poo. When he pointed to the corner of the yard it was just that. The most elevated corner had a 8 inch square recess set into the floor that seemed only to be 4 inches deep and full of sand. There was a recognisable human poo resting on the top. Fair play to our genial host, he did notice by our puzzled expressions that the gringos were in need of assistance. Finding a poncho for me to hold up for the sake of Hippyís modesty (ponchos are quite good for this as you get a little window for a view), he wandered off muttering. Probably something along the lines of ìWhy do I always get the prudish gringos?î For me I am quite used to squatting in the open air and in fact it can be quite pleasant when you have a lovely view to distract you, but somehow dropping ëem in the corner of a strangerís yard to open view felt a little weird.
His house had an earthen floor and sparse worn furnishings. The room was lined with floor to ceiling shelving with a pile of six lonely looking school books in one corner, presumably those of his 4 children. Some how empty shelving almost emphasises a lack of contents more than no shelving at all.
My eyes were drawn to the only thing of real colour, on the chipped painted adobe walls, a glossy public information poster showing graphically the differences between boys and girls. Later as we were led through the only bedroom with 2 sagging straw mattresses I again noticed a second public information notice, this time pointing out the rights of women to enjoy sex and not have to worry about getting pregnant. I was impressed with the efforts of the government on sex education but wondered if the posters adorned the walls, for Calixto to educate his children or the bright glossy print cheered up the grim walls. Does it really matter, when either serves a purpose?
I was also thankful that we were paying this man directly and I knew that all the money would go to him rather than some tour agency. He was certainly in need. There was no sign of a Mrs. Calixto and we suspected that she may no longer to with us and the eldest daughter of about 13 would be running the show while their dad was gone trekking with a couple of gringos.
All of our kit went onto the donkey and huge piles of blankets and stuff were plonked onto the saddles in order to make things more comfortable for our European bums. Just as everything was strapped down and secured, Calixto spotted a large bag of bread that heíd forgotten to put in. I was a bit surprised as weíd been instructed to buy and bring enough food for three and had duly complied. We helped speed up departure by popping the bread into our day sack.
I thought that the horses were to aid us when we got tired, but Calixto obviously thought that we had booked a pony trek. Hippy was quite made up when we were asked to mount when we were only 100 yards from base. I, on the other hand, dreaded the idea of travelling horseback for long distances and hoped that my foray on these seemingly skittish beasts was simply to make sure that we were not completely useless pillocks. I prepared myself to leap off after a few hundred yards when I had proved my status as a piece of horse luggage.
In fact, the nags were pretty cool once they had passengers and shambled their way up the trail at an extremely gentle pace. Donkey in the lead, Calixto at the back and a random foal (son of mounts) capering about all over the place we set off up the hill. Amazingly, other than the groin strain induced by a poorly fitted saddle, I was quite getting into this riding thing and settled in for a bit of a session.
Trotting out of town up a grassy cobbled track to a little village up the hill we led onto a street of houses. The street was rather sweetly labelled, which was remarkable in the fact that it was labelled at all, with the name Calle Pre-Inca, so it looked like we were on the right road anyway. It led to a lovely green with original painted adobe houses round the sides each with little balconies and a church taking pride of place at one end. Horse riding is fine but it does mean that taking photos is a bit difficult on a moving animal so you will have to believe me that this small enclave of history looked like it had been spared the troubles of the world for many a century.
An hour up the path and my groin spoke to me, telling me to get off and walk. I hailed our guide and asked if I may step down and we took a quick time out. It was when we set off again that I discovered that when a horse seems to be walking at a slow pace, this translates to a pretty brisk walk for a human. I managed to keep ahead of the field with a huge effort and felt that this must be doing me some good (?).
We had heard that May was the time for wild flowers, and although it was no match for South Africa in August there was a full range of bushes coming into flower. Some with little pink flowers other with yellow ones and some with blues ones. As we rose higher, the flowers pulled in their necks to get protection from the wind. Eventually, the only flowers that were left were huge daisies and dandelions that had no stalk at all and appeared simply as if they were the heads of the flowers that had been cut off and scattered on the ground.
The rest of the day (four hours) was spent on a gentle up gradient that even I could cope with. I was beginning to think that there was no need for a guide at all but one look at our camping gear and food supply waving around on the top of our donkey brought reality crashing back. With half an hour to go, the weather turned a bit poor. The promised wind that howls through the gap in the mountains was rising and driving fine drizzle into our faces. Hips pointed out the every day that weíd been in Huaraz there had been a bit of a cloud over in the afternoon. She was right and I was sure that things would be brighter for the morrow.
How, I donít know but we managed to get the tent up in about the only respite in the rain, and in fairness our now dog-eared yellow tent was a lovely and snug retreat from the howling wind and rain, when it came. Calixto occupied a little herders hut with a wall height of 1m, with a cone of thatch above. It was gloomy, but once your eyes adjusted to the dimness you could see to cook as long as there was daylight. Even though our man was contracted on a guiding and cooking basis, I thought it would be unfair to leave him to work out our stove by himself. Great minds have had difficulty with lighting and control procedures. Although all we had to do was boil up soup and spaghetti and make a bit of pasta sauce out of tomatoes and ham, the whole thing turned out to be bit of a mush and Calixto muttered thanks that suggested he would have been much happier cooking for himself. We ate and slept well, surrounded by the snowcapped mountains of the Andes.
During the night the wind and rain did not relent and the sides of the tent flapped all night giving the feeling of being in a crisp packet. I slept sporadically, and thoughts of the next day battling with the wind and rain at 4,700 metres did not thrill me. I worried about poor Calixto in his herderís hut and considered inviting him into our little tent. As I rolled over carefully and just managed not to push the side of the tent out of shape, I thought perhaps two would be quite sufficient. I thought of our pathetic hiking gear; my canvas trainers, heavy motorcycle jacket and bike gloves, Patís cheapy trainers that were already pulling apart and his flimsy rain cape bought in a mad rush in Patagonia and knew that we were not equipped for bad weather at high altitude.
Hippy turned to me in the morning and suggested that we turned back. It was clear that she was less happy than me as I was prepared to probably go on and suffer as ìIíd started so Iíd finishî. When I emerged from the tent, my bravado dissolved and I had to concede that as their was nowt to be seen of the pass that we intended to traverse as it was full of mist and rain squalls, the future did not look rosy. Hippy had a master thought ñ what if we have enough food to last out an extra day? We put it to our man and he was confident that with a little prayer the weather would be fine for the next day.
Just to make sure that weíd be OK we laid out all the food hat we had on the floor of the hut and mentally conjured up menus that would tide us through for the next two and a half days. If we could get by on soup and bread today and a few biscuits, we should be fine. We checked that Calixto had his bread ready to share for lunch the next day. Of course, having enough fuel to cook with was something of an issue too. No worries, our bare foot friend would demonstrate the noble art of cooking with turds later that day. Sorted.
We had come prepared for anything (well maybe not in the clothes, food, or fuel department, but we canít think of everything) with our trusty pack of cards. So we settled in the hut on the dirt floor wrapped in donkey blankets for a day of cards. It was an opportunity for a little serious cultural exchange and invited Calixto to teach a card game of his choice. The game was Casino, for hours after hours, after hours. Make some tea more Casino and Casino.
Now Calixto was obviously an old hand at this game and was one of those people who relish the misfortune of others by giggling persistently each time he won a trick. Coupled with this was the fact that he would drop new rules in randomly, strangely always to suit his own advantage. Funnily enough he never lost a game when he was dealing either, and I noticed that his innocent naive appearance hid some very dodgy card shifting as he dealt. As Esther will testify, I am not the competitive type and anyone will testify who has played Pat at anything he is the worst loser on earth. So if you can picture the day of us huddled in a gloomy hut, surrounded by wind and rain with Calixto giggling away, Pat grumbling and me saying ëIts only a gameí. It was all a bit odd!
As weíd arranged, it was soup for tea. Calixto managed to rustle up enough dung to get a bit of a smoke going. Iíd love to be able to report fantastic roaring flames, but really, the dung contributed little. In fact, he cooked over the wood that was there to light the dung and the other stuff simply produced a filthy sticky deposit on our pans which have remained shiny since England. Dinner was served and Iíd committed the heinous sin of not putting enough water in with the soup mix. It seemed perfect to me ñ thick and tasty. Peruvians like their soup thin and kind of tasty, though. We talked about the bread situation over our supper and Calixto chirped up that heíd eaten the stuff that heíd brought.
I was speechless, here we were in the middle of nowhere with an extra day on top of what we had planned and the bastard had eaten all the remaining bread..........
Hippy and I went off to clean the muck off the pans and went mutually ballistic over his greed and lack off consideration for the ìmissionî. Trying to get the tacky residue of condensed cow dung vapour off the pans did little to calm us down and we plotted whether to get our own back by accidentally eating all of the remaining food or some such. In the end we settled on making sure that we ate enough and letting the matter go. Ultimately, we were riding the horses while our man was walking and so we should get by. Our only plan was to tell the hostel that had lined him up for us about his poor team play just so that future trekkers would know to take enough food with them.
There was no rain to speak of during the night and we were full of the joys of spring when we emerged from Terry (I suppose if Bertha is to be mentioned by name, so should the tent) Not sure about this Pat autocratically naming our belongings, what will it be next ñ the footy scarf, his socks? Not that I have any real objection to the name of Terry, for the tent. Breakfast was the last of the porridge mixed with some raisins and a large amount of tea. We managed not to mutter too much about the food supplies and saddled up ready for the off.
It was truly glorious and though I had intended to walk all day, once I had taken the saddle to avoid the water on the first section out of camp, I found myself firmly implanted with the leisure to be able to gaze around at the views. More and more snow capped peaks peeped out from behind the morning shroud of clouds that surrounded them or from behind other mountain peaks that hid them away. This is by fat the nicest bit of the Andes that we have seen yet. Iím not sure it can get much better.
Pat was wrapped in his plastic cape with a bungee strap doubling as a belt to hold it in place. While, I was wearing my motorcycle jacket and gloves, covered by a huge heavy tightly woven poncho, smelling of horse, loaned to me by Calixto, who seemed unconvinced that my jacket was windproof, topped off with an Arab headscarf. We must have looked a ramshackle pair in our efforts to combat the cold and wind as we passed the snow line. In fairness I discovered that a good rustic poncho is a wondrous garment; laid flat its a mat to lie on or a blanket; worn, itís wind and rain proof and when there is a call of nature in the wilds the poncho keeps your activities private.
Half way up to the saddle of the mountain range the horse needed a rest, and Calixto offered to take a picture of us. It was quickly apparent that this was virgin territory for him, as he held the camera up to his face and pointed the back of the camera at us. Sometimes I forget that how many technologies I take for granted. Calixto may not know how to use a camera or open the clips of our rucksack but he knows more than I about cooking with shit and at least he can get on and off a horse without making a pigs ear of it like me, who each time had to be shoved on ungainly with Pat pushing my arse over. I did feel stupid! (no comment)
The scenery was amazing as we rose and rose and the glacier and snow filled saddles of mountains came closer and closer. Passing clear mountain tarns, looked so tempting, but for the fact that you could see that entering stream came directly from that icy glacier up there. We were both so pleased that we had decided to hole up for the day, the day before there would have been hail and ice up here and none of the jaw dropping scenery would have been seen. I am what is known as a fair weather hiker or horse rider. I have never seen the point of walking with no views and bad weather. I realise that makes me a bit of a wimp, but do I care? No. Iíd been putting a macho face on things and been prepared to hike on in the grim weather of the day before, but now I realise the folly of such stupidity ñ weíd have seen none of this. Good call, Hippy.
As we reached the crest of the pass a new vista was opened up to us, it was like entering a new land; the wind dropped (once we were clear of the pass, I hasten to add ñ at the top it was something of a gale) and the land lost its ruggedness and became verdant. The downhill was steep and rocky and Calixto was not keen for his horses to bear our burden. To be honest I was ready for a stroll and downhill is fine. We trotted ahead of the horses down the zigzag pathway to the rolling countryside below. A little marshy at the bottom, we stopped to investigate a strange standing stone that looked like it was there for a purpose. What purpose we could not tell.
Little thatched herders huts appeared in small clusters of 2 or three on the hillside, and little bare foot children herding cows greeted us as we passed with ëRegalomeí (give me present). It is always thus. They seemed confused that we did not have any chocolate to give them, or any sweeties. That fact was that we hadnít even started the trip with any, but trying to explain this to 5 year olds who had only a limited understanding of Spanish, as they are more used to speaking Quecha, was a non starter.
Our meal that day Pat kept muttering, things like ëit would be nice to have some bread with thisí Canít think what he was getting at all? Since Calixto spoke no English his sarcasm served only to vent his anger. Itís called getting it off your chest with a bit of old fashioned irony, Hippy.
For me that evening was a real treat we sat in the gloom watching the full moon rise only a nearby mountains and played games with our elongated moonlit shadows, and looking with awe at the black Andes silhouetted against a perfect midnight blue sky. Up on the hill behind the tent was a monolith that looked to be the size of one of the Stonehenge pillars. Calixto told us that the stones were used by the Huanca (sadly funny when you hear it said by a local) people to mark their boundaries.
Sad but true, this was the first time that Hippy had seen a moonrise. I fascinated her with the geometry of orbiting bodies and the fact that the rising moon was not such an amazing event but for some reason she seemed to be ignoring me and simply gazing at the heavens. Calixto had disappeared after dinner to leave us with the washing up and the problem of how long to keep hot water for him to make coffee with. After about an hour and a half we used the now cold water to wash up with and just at that moment who should turn up, saying ìWhereís the hot water for me teaî. We politely pointed out that owing to the cooling effect of the high mountain air and the shortage of petrol for the stove he could lump it. We were now getting a bit more than miffed with our man.
Morning and our man had disappeared again. Weíd decided to put back our start for an hour and so as heíd intended to leave at 7 there should be no reason for him being off wherever. We made breakfast and he was still nowhere to be seen. We ate breakfast. We packed up the tent and stuff. He eventually arrived and stood gaffing with his mate for a while ñ meanwhile his brekky was going cold. ìIs there no warm water for my tea?î No Calixto, there is not.
There had been a load of hassle from the locals as they all suddenly develop stomach and head aches when gringos come through and queue up for pain killers. We had a pot of aspirin type things but were disinclined to give them away. The first reason may seem a bit selfish ñ we had headaches and wanted to treat our own symptoms. The second reason is more realistic ñ we knew why we had headaches; altitude and a touch of dehydration and so suppressing the symptoms with painkillers was not really such a bad thing to do. They seemed to believe that our pills were going to cure their problems. We felt that not giving out random pills was the right thing to do. Answers on a postcard please. We did offer to let the ill use the horses down to the town to see a doctor but all they wanted was pain killers. I did wonder whether ailments were invented whilst gringos were in town and people stored up tablets for later when they truly had need.
Calixto started on the ìOoh, my tummy hurtsî line when he didnít get any hot water for tea. I donít know if he thought we were going to put the pot back on to make that well known cure all, tea, for him but he was sadly mistaken. Just as we were packing to leave I found a packet of Rennies in the bottom of our rucksack and handed them over to our geyser telling him to suck on one slowly. He promptly swallowed it. I rest my case about appropriate drug use.
All day was down hill and I was determined to walk for one whole day out of the three and so shunned the offer of gee gee. The valley on this side of the mountains was totally different to the west side. Where there had been boggy moorland there was now small fields clinging to every available hillside. The soil seemed incredibly fertile. I know the crops were generally hardy; maize, quinoa and the like, but they were thriving even on slopes of 45 degrees or more. Villages began to look more and more prosperous with schools and agricultural outreach offices and even the odd sign up for the omnipresent Inca Kola. We reckon that the word Inca can be used to prefix pretty much any product.
We had to make way through mixed herds of pigs, goats, cows, dogs and all sorts. Funny how they all lived happily together, but when a new animal came on the scene the dogs would give tongue. Reassuring to know, too, that it is not just the bike that sets the dogs off.
With more and more habitation came more ëRegalomeí from choruses of children at the side of the muddy paths. We used the Egyptian response of ëPor que?í Why? Which usually stunned them enough to not elicit further response. It is a difficult one, whether to give to beggars, but since we havenít in areas where people are a lot more desperate, we are not likely to start. We debated whether most trekkers they meet do give, and how this habit started. Two things in the Peruvians favour the adults were never begging and charmingly gave us appropriate greetings and secondly at least the childrenís requests were in Espanol and not English. Most other places Ethiopia, Egypt etc the requests were in English. It had felt like the first words were ëGive me moneyí. At least here they were sticking to languages of their own country.
The descent into Chavin, our destination, was steep and gravelly, We met a beautiful charming young girl leading her donkey up the hill, we chatted, she wanted her photo taken, but with the experiences of the day it seemed likely that she was selling herself for tourist pictures. As we parted and she mounted her donkey and trotted up hill as we continued down she shouted parting words cheerily from above. Maybe we should have taken her photo.
I was losing my confidence, my legs were getting wobbly and the gravel was getting worse. I felt very self-conscious as locals were herding their pigs and goats up the path and I was tottering tentatively down. My embarrassment and tiredness made me irritable and Patrick slowing down for me I found patronising and oh so patient. I was aware that when Hippy had been walking in the Rockies with some friends of ours they had gone on ahead and waited for her and when she arrived only gave her a short break before setting off again. She expressed her annoyance at their selfishness. My slowness and waiting was all done in placid humour and, indeed, I was enjoying the views. The point is when walking with Hippy you just canít win. Iím not sure weíll bother with any real trekking in the future. We started to row, it attracted the attention of our host and Calixto suggested I rode the rest of the way. I would have preferred not to have any more attention drawn to myself but it was not to be. As we entered town I felt hugely conspicuous sat in my bike gear on top of a horse.
The hotel Calixto led us to was nice enough, and when we offered to buy him lunch, unsurprisingly his indigestion was conspicuously absent as he wolfed his food down in double quick time. Then came the difficult bit, we had agreed before the trip 25 dollars a day and had budgeted for 3 days not the 4 that it turned into, effectively he had little on the second day except eat the last of the bread of course. Pat was in a generous (fair is a better word) mood and I was not, I reluctantly agreed to give him 3 quarter pay for the second day. I will still not forgive the bread eating.
And so we said farewell to Calixto. He set off back up the hill with his beasts to do the return of the walk while we considered whether to go to the ruins or hot springs first. I feel a bit sorry for the guy really. Not so much that his lot is so tough ñ you must remember that he has just made the best part of a hundred dollars for three days work (5 when you take into account his return journey) when teachers here only make twice that for a month. No, the real worry is that he believes the stories that he hears about the guides at Macchu Pichu getting 25 dollars per day. Having met folk who have done the walk and chatted frankly with their guides, we know for certain that they are getting somewhere in the region of 2 and a half dollars per day. I hope he doesnít up sticks and go for the Macchu Pichu thing. Heís much better off where he is. Foolishly we didnít fill him in on what would be called good etiquette from a guide towards his clients. Perhaps we were remiss there.
Chavin is famous for its pre-Inca ruins. There are large courtyards and temples gathered in the valley bottom. The micro climate that we had experienced since coming over the top was obviously a major attraction for the people that settled here. Within the temple are a series of underground passage and chamber complexes. In the heart of one of them is a 13 feet high pillar carved into an anthropomorphic figure (you get loads of those around here) that is at the centre of four tunnels which run out in the cardinal directions. This gives rise to the theory that this is the centre of the world. Move over Delphi.
The quality of the stonework was for the most part impressive and there were some pretty huge chunks that they had moved about in times contemporary with the Egyptians. There was obviously several stages of building on the temple and the top courses were especially good looking rock. Down below there were bits and bats of stone pushed into gaps and the theory is that the whole thing would have been of the same quality at one time but as there have been several quakes, bits broke off and had to be wedged back in again.
In the museum we bumped into Brett and Darelle, the couple weíd met during language lessons in Sucre a good while back. Theyíd been travelling with their folks who had come over from Australia and done the Inca trail amongst other things. They had found it pretty easy and their not overly fit, 60something parents had managed without problems. Next time? Surprisingly they had found the Salar de Uyuni uninteresting and quit their tour early. Different strokes.
We were a bit suspicious of the hot springs up the road as weíd been disappointed by the last set which had been so un-hot. As it was only supposed to be 15 minutes up the road, we decided that our aching legs would just manage it and set off. There was a house after about 14 minutes that had a sign saying ìPick up the key for the baÒos hereî. When we knocked, a voice from within told us that they were already open. From there we were followed by a little girl of about 5 who watched us while we were in the baths and then followed back to her house afterwards, our white skin was the entertainment for the day and it was a refreshing change to have not a single ëRegalomeí.
The pool was again lukewarm, but this time clearer and smelling of sulphur. Still, I reckoned that the sulphur in the water would probably stop the burst blister on my foot from festering and so I wallowed for a good bit. We chatted with the manager about how cool these baths had been and he pointed out that there were separate bathing huts with their own bath-sized baths that were filled with water direct from the spring. This was better, and better still was the fact that unbeknown to us this was included in our 16p entry fee. We had our own little bath together which raised a couple of eyebrows, but I can assure you that our aches precluded any shenanigans. This time we emerged with glowing good feeling and relaxed muscles. Mission accomplished.
Back in town we crashed out at our usual trekking-sun-goes-down time of 7 oí clock. It turned out that Chavin was something of a raving town and laughter and frivolity carried on for what seemed ages. Of course, judging by the time we hit the hay, they may actually have only been chatting ëtil about 9.
There are lots of buses over to Chavin from Huaraz as it is the only real crossing from one north-south valley to the other. Besides, there are loads of tourists in Huaraz who want to go over to see the ruins.
After the mad late partying of the night before, we could hear what sounded like the whole populace of Huaraz up and about and arguing for seats on the early bus to Huaraz. Being about 6 in the morning, we rolled over and went back to sleep. But then as our body clocks were set to mountain time, we got up at about 7 to see what was happening in the world.
As we had done all we had set out to achieve in Chavin, we thought weíd get back to Huaraz and get organised to move on the next day; washing, packing the bike etc. We asked at the reception where the buses went from and we were waved in the general direction of the opposite corner of the plaza. And so it was we were sat on a park bench at 8:30 waiting for a bus to Huaraz
We played cards for a good bit. We quite decided we liked Casino when there was no pressure.
9:45 ìWhat are you two waiting forî ìA bus to Huarazî ìYou should have been here at 6î ìWe heardî ìNo bus now til 12:00î
We went off for a bite to eat and returned at 11:45
12:30 ìWhat are you doing here?î (Someone else obviously) ìWaiting forÖî etc ìThe next bus is at 2:00î
2:40 ìWhat...î etc ìThe next bus is at threeî
We gave up and followed Hippyís cunning plan of going to the ruins and trying to get a blag back on one of the tourist buses. Just a seat, we didnít mind paying over the odds even. (Cue the supply and demand comment from the webmaster). After waiting for approximately 5 minutes outside the gates to the ruins a rather charming couple came out and offered us a lift to Catac (where there are loads of buses to Huaraz ñ so they tell us). Cynical buggers that we are we instantly asked the price. Nil. They even offered us a beer out of their cool box as we put our stuff in the back.
What a brilliant stroke of luck. We had the chance to stop for photos on the way over the top where we wanted, comfy seats, CD sound system playing Pink Floydís ìThe Wallî (OK once would have been sufficient) and some very pleasant company.
Salvador the driver seemed to be taking his other half on a guided tour of Peruvian culture and scenery which had the added bonus that they would to take in the view on the way an some photos. This has got to be better than being cramped up for 4 hours on a minibus.
I was quite relieved that we had not chosen to do the road by bike. Although parts were wonderful tarmac, parts were also thick sludgy mud of washed away gravel rutting. A bridge seemed to be out over a river, traffic on the other side was at a standstill. This could be a long wait! On approach men with barrows of cold chunks of tarmac were trying to break them up and squeeze them into the gap that had developed between the road and the beginning of the bridge. Do not try this one at home kids. We were waved through, I closed my eyes, we are here today.
In the end Salvador took us all the way to our hostel door and wouldnít except a Sol for petrol, claiming it was on company expenses. Thank-you Salvador and Telemovil Peru for paying for the petrol.
We had been worried that the hostel owners had sent out a search party for us when we were a day late traversing the Andes. But this is Latin America, people arriving ëen la manaÒaí is the norm, rather than something to concern yourself about.
A hot shower and all is well with the world.
Some charming Sicilians, Luca and Marcella, had got in a movie for the night, we were invited to join them and watched the film Artificial Intelligence, drank a little wine and retired to bed.