PanAmania - Heading North through the ruins - 28 May 2003
Huaraz, Carhuaz, Caraz etc.
Duck, itís a landslide
Tunnels without lights
Bridges without decks
Latest mad post office experience
Sicilian lunch
Chan Chan and a load of Huacas
More mud
So we watched a video with Luca and Marcella and retired early. Because weíd had the cock up of getting back to Huaraz by blag, we had to spend a day doing the washing and internetty stuff. We had hoped to chat a bit with the Sicilians that night but we crashed really early again. Clearly this trekking thing really takes it out of you.
At last we were off. It has quite a long stop for us in Huaraz but had been chock full of allsorts of different activities and so the 10 days had not been boring at all. It was a good thing that we werenít going far, though as weíd both got a bit saddle rusty.
Getting out of town proved to be the first major problem. Weíd needed to go to the cash point which as ever was located on the corner of the Plaza de Armas. When we pulled up at the corner, there was a motorbike cop frantically waving us on. I pulled up alongside and explained that we simply wanted to use the cash till. He had no problem with that and told us to pull up tight to the pavement. It then became clear why he was sitting on his bike blocking off the main street through town. As Hippy extracted cash from the cash till, a procession got closer and closer. Just as she was finished and walking back to the bike, the marchers passed and we were stuck in the middle of industrial action. It was the teachers this time. Chanting the usual ìWhat do we wantÖî type chants, they passed extremely slowly. It was clear from their banners that there were representatives of all the institutions in the area and each one had 20 or more marchers. Makes a change from the UK when 10 people turn up to march and the rest of the teachers take a day off to go shopping. As Hippy points out, they donít even strike any more in England and usually settle for what theyíre given.
We were quite interested in the strike and so werenít too bothered to be waiting. After about quarter of an hour it got a bit much though and so I decided to take a quick 5 yards down the road and turn up a side street. It was going to be one of those days. We rounded the corner to come face to face with the head of the procession. The group that had gathered on the corner all joined in hoots of laughter at our predicament. Thankfully, the marchers felt sorry for us and allowed us to turn around and ride through their numbers to escape the wrong way down a one way street.
The road down the valley was perfect as it is one of the prime holiday destinations for Limasonians. We mused maybe that the correct name for people from Lima may be Limosnans (limosna being the Spanish for alms or charity).
A minor jaunt down the valley to Caraz, and through Carhuaz, which of course it can be easily confused with. Approaching, Caraz the local teachers had blocked the entrance of the town with a liberal scattering of boulders and thorn branches across the road. We were waved through and weaved our way down the slalom course created and thought that we would finally be scuppered when we reached the end of the blockade, where tree trucks were covering the full width of the road, but some kindly striker shuffled the trunks out of the way for us. Obviously saw a couple of gringos as no threat to his mission.
There was no way that a teacherís strike was going to turn nasty was there?We had read that there were lovely little day walks from Caraz, which sounded like our kind of thing. When we got there, there was no such thing and we were recommended to go back the way we had come. In no mood for making regressive steps and renegotiating the blockade, we hauled up for the night and decided to head on North the next day.
There were 3 ways out of Caraz, one back the way we had come, the next straight over a mountain range to the coast and the other gradually sloped down hill through a picturesque narrow gorge, El CaÒon del Pato (Duck canyon, if you prefer) The third option was reportedly the better road, so option C it was. Here in Peru no one can ever tell you how far something is, but give pretty accurate timings for how long it would take (unlike people in Africa who would take one look at the bike and assume that we travelled at 100 miles an hour everywhere dirt and mud included). So when the quoted time was 6 hours or 4 with no stoppages to Trujillo on the coast, we thought it a fair assessment probably accurately. Looking at the distances involved, it suggested that the road must be in pretty good nick.
Lovely winding tarmac, no problem. A chap coming the other way waved at us frantically and shaking his head. We carried on. A police check point flagged us down.
ëThe road is out thereís a landslideí
ëCan we get the bike through?í
ëDonít think so, but you can tryí
ëHow far down is it?í
ë5kmí
ëWeíll give it a goí
5km down the canyon. No way Jose! What amused me was a sign just in front of it saying that the speed limit was 35kmph. Looks like thereíll be no transgressors today then. The side of the cliff had not only covered the road in about 3m of rubble at the shallowest but also nearly blocked the river in the bottom as well. The policeman must be still laughing that we thought we could get through. The thought of going back to Caraz and over the mountains did not thrill at all. We would never make to Trujillo. Then the engineer in charge of clearing the landslide offered to show us to a route up the side of the canyon and back down on the far side of the blockage. Excellent!
The turn off did not look too inspiring, a boulder strewn track at best. To be fair, when weíd rounded a couple of corners it did seem to improve. Up and up we wound and I was beginning to think that weíd been sent on the road that goes all the way over the top to the PanAm. At last we poled up at a rather nice little mountain town where a rather nice policeman told us which way to go. When asked how fared the road ahead, he replied that it was a bit poor for a while but after 16 km it would be very nice for us.
14 km later, we arrived at a point high above the gorge looking down at a small town where we were obviously going to join the ìmainî highway again. There followed one of the longest series of switchbacks that weíve been on. It was not the number of turns that was amazing, but the distance along each zig and zag along the mountainside. Between corners the road was pretty much flat and so getting down to the bottom took about an hour even though it had looked, from the top, as if you could reach out and touch the houses below.
But, we were back in the canyon after two hours up on the hillsides. The first road sign we came to informed us that we were approximately 5 km closer to our destination than where the landslide had been. Hmmm, this is going to be a long day.
The road was a pretty fair bit of dirt after that, but man was it dusty. We followed a bus that was going marginally slower than we were and tried to hang back from it. There was no room to overtake and he was giving no quarter and so we had no option. Eventually he did pull over just before a tunnel.
The road, we had been informed, passes through 36 tunnels on its way to the coast. These tunnels were awfully dark after passing through the bright, near equatorial sunshine and to cap it all had a rough bottom rather than the usual concrete surface. Thus was I flummoxed. I could not see where I was going and the surface did not allow me to just head for the light at the other end. Whatís more, I had the local bus honing right up my backside. We did the sensible thing and pulled over to the tunnel wall as tight as we could to let the bus go past.
Now we only had the light and bad surface to contend with. No problem, the high wattage halogen bulb retro fitted to Bertha should illuminate our way with no problems and then all will be well. Regrettably the lights seemed to have chosen this time to go AWOL and so we resorted to plan B ñ Hippy holding the mini-maglite over my head and lighting the path ahead of us. Needs must and I wouldnít recommend this at home kids. As we bumped along the rough surface of the dirt road trying to keep the torch pointing directly in front of the bike was easier said than done. With a huge number of tunnels to go I was in favour of stopping and trying to solve the problem. Pat knew that we were already running late and as we later discovered it wasnít really road side fixable (the connections having broken).
The beauty of all this was that there were so many lovely tunnels yet to come. Thankfully most of them were sufficiently short for us to get through without mag-lighting.
Then there were the bridges. In keeping with most of the bridges in out of the way places, they had decks of wooden planking. What usually happens, though, is that the planking is arrayed in different directions to spread the load to the frame below. It is usual practice to end up with a complete deck of planks running perpendicular to the traffic and then a line of three planks down each of the wheel track lines. The problem on old bridges is that the boards on the wheel track lines tend to break up and leave an extremely tricky ride for a half ton motorcycle. So, what I usually do is simply ride on the cross boards. As I approached one of the bridges, it was clear that the cross boards were at about 2 feet centres. Tricky to ride on a bike ñ very bumpy! I had to go back to the triple board bit strategy and paddle with my feet all the way across. When even these planks were breaking up at the end, I simply opened her up and hoped for the best. Iím still here writing, not in the bottom of a river and so you can assume that it worked. This was one of many such bridges and each time I took the appropriate action and closed my eyes, and relaxed. I was once told that people who are most likely to get least injured in a crush are those asleep as they donít bother to brace themselves and thus break limbs. So I relaxed and thought good thoughts and open them again when I felt wholesome dirt beneath us again.
It was a hard day and our emergence into the wide valley brought great relief to us both. It was amazingly like Egyptian countryside only the river down the valley came nowhere near close to the Nile!
We were not finished when we got out to the PanAmericana. We had to decide whether to stay at the first large town we got to or to press on until we got to Trujillo. Now it was obvious that we would have no lights until theyíd been given a bit of attention and so the last spurt up the PanAm would have to be just that to ensure arriving before sunset.
We made it as dusk was beginning to fall. Typically, the hostel I had planned to stay at with nice hot showers seemed to have shut down and I was in no mood to rove the city streets negotiating aggressive taxis and one way streets so we headed for the nearest second option. It had been described as a grungy, but clean prison. This description was more than accurate, the showers did not trouble the solar heating and although I felt grimy from a dusty day on the road I made do with a wash in the sink as I couldnít face a full blown cold shower. As normal in the case of cheap hotels around the world, this doubled as a knocking shop. At least that meant that there would be erotic sounds entertainment for the night.
Something felt wrong about Trujillo. You look on a map and it is closer to the equator than southern Ethiopia and down at low altitude, but it had a cold and clammy feel. It was one of the most unpleasant climates I have ever encountered. So definitely cross Trujillo off the potential list of places to live!
Intermission:- Real time Pat is wired into headphones in the internet caff beside me and is made up to be listening to ëWhip ití by Devo, head bobbing from side to side in time with the music. Does this show his age or what?
The next morning we awoke and our eyes wandered round the grotty prison cell after an uncomfortable nights sleep, and we looked a each other and wondered what the hell we were doing staying in such a hell hole. I quickly refreshed Patís memory that last night we had little choice with fading light and no bike lights and anyway they had loads of room for Bertha, who had seemingly the best room in the sleeping den.
Latest mad post office experience
Poor Willy Webmaster has a dreadful job to do and we hope that readers appreciate his efforts. Amongst other tiresome chores is the processing and selection of pickies. We try to send rolls of film back in manageable batches and so try to be reasonably regular. Thus it is that we have been at the hassly end of post office bureaucracy in most of the countries that weíve been to. We thought that weíd seen most things and tend to be prepared for anything. Peru, however, is vying for the premiership.
Our procedure, now, is
1 Have the films in a box (envelopes have proved insufficient before now).
2 The box is open in case of requiring a customs inspection. (Some do, some donít)
3 Wrapping paper is standard thick brown ñ open of course (see 2)
4 Approach desk and declare our intent to post to Inglaterra. On no account say Reinos Unidos, no one seems to know that England is only a part of a larger entity.
5 Await further instructions.
Normally this involves the possible direction to customs office, the weighing counter or maybe simply the sealing of the parcel and application of stamps. Note, we have fallen foul of counter inspection on both the too large and too small package front before now.
Here, though, a whole new territory was entered into; seamstressry . Yes, thatís stress from getting seams on your parcel. We actually had to leave the post office and find a lady who could sew our parcel into a tight sack. Extraordinary. This is apparently a security measure. Like a sharp paper knife is going to struggle with a thin cloth sack. Have you ever tried writing with a biro to put an address on a cloth sack? Have you tried sticking stamps to one?
Web master will vouch for quality of seams, although I fancy the British customs will have been well suspicious and cut it all open anyway. We shall see.
Barking bloody mad.
The main point for stopping in Trujillo is the fact that it is one of the greatest centres on pre-Inca archaeological site in Peru. There is a huge are of old adobe city called Chan Chan that houses the temples and burial places of about 9 kings. There are also a couple or three other temples scattered around the area.
Weíd just been looking into the potential for temple visiting when we bumped into Luca and Marcella. They were off down to the beach in search of a decent bit of seafood. It seems that they are archetypal in their need for quality food and who can blame them. Like Trujillo, the beach was overcast and cool but lunch was passable and we gaffed for hours on all matter of topics. Many of them were not the usual ìWhat did you think of...î backpacker conversations which made a wonderful change.
They seemed to be like minded folk, who despite only knowing them for a few hours it seemed that we could chat away for hours, on every topic imaginable. It was a lovely afternoon eating fresh (ish) fish overlooking the beach and the Pacific Ocean (which was grey enough to be in Blackpool)
Theyíd arrived in the morning on the overnight bus from Huaraz and so needed to head off for kip but we arranged to meet up maÒana to take in the sights. To get around needed a taxi or the use of buses and being in a group of four would be good for bargaining power. Besides these are really nice folk and we looked forward to spending the day with them.
Chan Chan and a load of Huacas
Bright and early (thatíll be 9:30, then) we met up with Luca and Marcella to go off site seeing. Weíd decided to knock their taxi on the head as it would be cheaper to go around using the local buses. Weíd encouraged Luca to use a bit of a white lie to tell the taxi man that heíd arranged that his friends (us) had a car and so we were going to take them around the ruins. This of course meant that we were going to meet him all day, each time we stepped off a bus ñ it was bound to happen and poor Luca wrestled with his conscience all day.
First stop was a bit of an unusual tactic for us. We usually go for the site of most repute last as we like to build up to a climax rather than be disappointed. However, the geography and routes for buses dictated the order and so it was Chan Chan, the huge adobe city which houses the remains of no less than 9 royal palaces. The trouble with adobe is that it really does not stand the test of time. I feel for the archaeologists who have to deal with these particular sites. Very little of the detail remains and really only one of the palaces is worth visiting. For once, as we were with others we had the benefit of a guide who spoke, to my mind, nice clear Spanish and with concentration I could follow pretty much everything that he said. Maybe we have learned something in our time in S. Am ñ I was beginning to wonder. I on the other hand didnít follow much other than the odd technical word. At the moment I feel that my Spanish is on a regressive spiral. I really need to practice but it is so demoralising when my ërí problem means that although I use the right word no one understands and I tend to give up and leave it to Pat.
Perhaps the most interesting speculation was that the Chim™ people were aware of the Humbolt and NiÒo sea currents that apparently merge together at this part of the coast. This is indicated by a bas-relief, which shows fish swimming in different directions and a wall joining the main wall at the interface of opposing fish. Plausible explanation maybe, but verging on the von Daniken interpretation of stuff. I admire the imagination and interpretative powers of archaeologists and would love to know more about how they arrive at their conclusions. It does maybe explain the strange clammy feeling to the weather, though, in the middle of what is basically a desert area.
The palace was pretty huge at about 100m by 100 metres and surrounded by a 12 metre high adobe wall which would have been about 3 metres thick at the base. Now thatís a lot of mud bricks by anyoneís measure. Along with a few reliefs on the walls and some rather nice air brick effect wall work there was loads of restored passage ways, a sunken pond very much reminiscent of those at Karnak and a set of graves. The graves were dealt with in some depth but I can not say whether anything has been found here since the looting by the conquistadors.
It was a bit disturbing to find out that the wives and servants and stuff were buried with the ruler, but the fact that they were buried alive was most macabre. Theoretically, the people were drugged into unconsciousness, but mistakes must have happened.
The city withstood centuries of the Incas trying to conquer them, until finally the Inca cut off their water supply and the Chimu culture was lost.
At every turn we were met by taxi drivers offering their services to take us around the remaining ruins for ever decreasing amounts of money. Luca and Marcella are both language graduates and being Italian speakers have picked up pretty much perfect Spanish in their time out here. Left in the bartering position, they soon knocked all the prices down to a close competition to the buses. Given the convenience of having a man waiting for us, we could hardly refuse.
So, when we arrived at the second stop, who should be there but the taxi driver that Luca had turned down. Now we were arriving not just by bus, but in a taxi. Poor Luca paled and looked as if he was trying to blend into the background. I ought to point out here that Luca is not diminutive in stature, and like the rest of us towered over all the local inhabitants.
The succession of temples (huacas, to you) ended with the Huaca del Sol and Huaca de la Luna which were pretty fab. What was most impressive was the amount of original paintwork that remained intact and brilliant. Thanks to the tradition of enclosing previous incarnations of pyramids by building the new one around the outside, the friezes that bedecked the outer walls were kept in pretty much perfect condition. The first rendition being built in 1AD predating the Incas by over a millennium.
One of the temples, the Huaca del Sol had been looted by the Spanish in rather dramatic fashion. They re-routed a river so that it would eat away at the adobe construction. The upshot is the washed away look to one side of the pyramid. It rather begs the question as to whether the amount of digging that had to be done to divert a river may actually have taken more effort than pulling down a mud pyramid. Who can say?
It had been a good day and along the way we had acquired a Dutchman. Donít ask why, these things just happen. We ate, chatted and went for coffee and cake in a rather nice deli and said goodbye to our Sicilian friends. I hope we bump into them again, their warm, frank openness made them a joy to be with.
A quick nip up the PanAm and 250k further north and we were in Chiclayo, famous for some more ruins. Looks like we are on a bit of a cultural phase of trip. More crumbling adobe at Tucume, with 76 step pyramids (yes, that 76 pyramids of stepped form), which was only really revealed as a tremendous site when you slogged up the sacred hill and got more of an aerial view. This place was Greek kind of old, a millennium or two BC. To be honest I am surprised at how much of the mud bricks have not just disintegrated over the centuries.
Also in the area, at Sipan, an intact tomb had been found before the looters had got their grubby paws on it. The story is a testament to the dedication of the archaeos. The site was discovered when a load of grave robbers had a big scrap and the police were called in. They discovered loads of old stuff and called the archies. They closed off the site and carried on digging there in a rather more methodical manner for a couple of years before discovering another grave that was intact. The gold and ceramics rivals anything I have seen in Egypt or Greece and the in many ways was more copious and detailed. I was impressed and for once it took hours for me to get ëmuseum legsí (a Watson condition developed in Greece in 1969). Welcome to the family, Helen.
Chiclayo of course had its share of demonstrations while we were present. Teachers again, this time staging candle lit vigils on the plaza in front of the cathedral. Quite pretty, really. Maybe it should be a permanent fixture. Clearly the government seems to think so.