Because the last few blogs have been laden with an inordinate amount of bitching, I will make this one no exception. I hope the negativity isn’t too much of a turn-off to the readership, but this segment marks a rather dark chapter in my explorations. In future entries, I will get off my ass again and may even share some enjoyment of my adventure. Until then, enjoy some more of my bitter, sarcastic written rampage.
The morning after I settled in Andahuaylas, I bought my ticket for the fateful Celtur bus to Ayacucho, which would leave at 7:00. Feeling secure in the knowledge that I would be back on the road, I decided to see one of the local attractions. The guidebook had recommended Laguna Pachucha, a large lake that lies about 45 minutes outside of town. Since I had nothing else to do besides wait for laundry, I decided to walk uptown to where there were collectivos heading off in that direction.
Within five minutes I found a beat up van bound for Pachucha. Every time we hit a hole, which was often along the bumpy road, the suspension would make a loud crack that sounded like a shotgun firing underneath us. Additionally, I was packed in numb-shouldered with about ten women. All of them wore the brightly-colored native Peruvian cloth and hats. One had her small child riding on her knee—probably not US highway safety approved. Another thing I noticed was that I had absolutely no idea what they were saying. The woman across from me, a leathery-faced matron who might have been 35, or maybe 60 pointed at me and asked a question. I had the usual choice of asking somebody forever to repeat what they said or to bullshit some kind of pretend understanding. This time, neither worked, and now all the women on the bus were pointing and laughing. “Quechua?” one of them asked. Seeing that this was the name of the native language in the region; I began to get an idea why I had so much trouble understanding their words. It seemed a little unfair for them to still be laughing at my expense. To get even, I began talking in English. I should have taken their pictures and not paid them.
The lake was pretty but there were no hiking trails or beaches, just a small park with vandalized benches. I took out my sandwich that I ate listlessly, washing it down with some pine-flavored yellow fruit drink I’d bought in Andahuaylas. The adjoining town had a small craft market to wander as well as a carnival. About 25 foosball tables were set up on the muddy grass but nobody was playing. Some local politicians were on the grandstand, taking turns delivering speeches over the tinny sound system.
I felt as though I had accomplished little, but gave myself credit for trying. I went to the town square and got aboard a collectivo, this time a small taxi that the driver loaded up with drivers. Good thing I had got shotgun. Sill, the driver was an absolute nut, with no inhibitions about passing trucks on blind corners.
I picked up my clothes at the laundromat, and packed up my stuff at the hostel. Before the nightmare night-journey to Ayaucho I got a simple but delicious vegetarian meal at a local Chifa. A bowl of sopa de verduras alongside plain white rice injected some necessary salt and roughage to my still-traumatized digestive system.
The night bus to Ayacucho, which I have been so meticulously foreshadowing was 12 hours. Fortunately, I was asleep for most of it. For the first couple of hours however, I watched the strange road unfold in the darkness. It was dirt of course, but strangely enough it was also illuminated by halogen streetlamps. Why had they bothered? The ghastly orange light illuminated the semi-jungle closing in on either side. I could also see bulldozers and other heavy equipment rested along the roadside, idle for the moment. If I had to guess, I would say that there had been a lot of forestry or at least tree clearing in the adjoining hills. But then I really had no idea what the hell was going on. Around midnight, I fell asleep.
Let’s fast-forward through Ayacucho shall we? The fact is that for days, I had allowed myself to think idly that it would be worth the extra journey to visit this far-flung destination. When I got there, I found that my interest level was shot. I won’t take the easy way out and say simply that the town sucked—the problem was me. After the journeys and the stresses of the last couple of days I had low motivation to explore, to really get to the heart of the place.
Here’s a little more. I walked into the main market the first day. For some reason, an alarm went off and the cops came in and evacuated everyone. Then I wandered down the main streets, looking at shops. I tried to find a bus out to one of the local ruins, but when I got to the place the book had recommended, I couldn't find a bus anyway. Eventually, I gave up, didn’t care anyway, watched a mini-soccer match, and got some food.
I realized that I had literally been sitting on my ass for two days. The crowded city did not seem to lend itself to running, so I did some pushups, and crunches in my room. I put my backpack on and stepped up and down on a rickety wooden chair. This was bullshit, but unlike running, it kept me out of reach of crazy drivers and confrontational dogs.
Beware the Hellbangers of Ayacucho!
The day I went from Ayacucho to Huarez was the last day that I devoted exclusively to bus travel (wait until I got on the planes again.) I had spent so much time sitting and sleeping on busses that time was losing all meaning. If you asked me point blank what day it was of how many days I had been outside of Cuzco, I would have had to think about it for a couple of minutes.
The ride from Ayacucho got off to a not-so promising start when the large pant-suited woman seated next to me (in the window seat!) began an hour long cell phone conversation at high volume. For the next act, a guy stood in the aisle and began loudly hawking some bullshit health supplements. He kept his loud monotone sales pitch going on repeat as he walked up and down the bus. I prayed that the driver would slam on the breaks and kill him. Tragically, he remained standing and successfully closed several sales to gullible bus passengers.
I eventually achieved some kind of inner harmony by tuning everyone out. Over the hours that the bus sped over the highlands, I got through some long overdue writing. The bleak, grassy plains and stony outcroppings of the land and its abundant sheep reminded me of Connemarra Ireland. Occasionally, the bus driver would blast the horn and weave around a local woman leading her llamas.
The bus began a rapid descent towards Pisco, a city slightly north of Nazca. Astute readers will remember that this is also the name of the national drink, which originated there. Though the road was paved, it was not without its treacherous dips. The driver negotiated the switchbacks hard, making my walk to the bathroom in the back an adventure to say the least.
As the bus swung around, I almost fell on top of the people in the other seats. Ironically, because the window was open, the bathroom was far less stuffy than the rest of the bus. Next: the aim challenge. I was doing well until the bus swung into another curve. I lost my footing and hit the door. Of course it flung open and…
I finished up inside and walked back to my seat, trying to appear casual.
After we had descended from the mountains, the bus pulled into a walled in rest area for lunch. We were perhaps 50 miles south of the capital, but the dreary Lima fog had already descended upon us. People got off the bus and went inside a mess-hall building to buy their meals. I sat at one of the picnic tables outside and watched as succession of ugly looking dogs cruised around the tables—chomping on whatever bones and bits of food that people would throw them. One of them spied my cookies and tried the to be friends, but I wasn’t felling very charitable to dogs of late. That morning, on the front steps of the marketplace, I had seen two dogs in the act of making more dogs. Just what everyone needed. I had at least retained enough of my humanitarianism to feel bad when the bus flew by two doggies, smashed up on the side of the road to Lima.
Stressful as all the country roads were for the last couple of days, nothing beats the return to Lima for a big blood pressure spike and being convinced of the fundamental ugliness of humanity. I had not wanted to come back here. Only my having no alternative other than two days of uncertainty over worse and worse roads finally persuaded me. I traded days for a few hellish hours of stop and go traffic, ceaseless, honking and the soul-crushing depression brought on by the sight of the sludge-gray sky. Even though I wasn’t driving, the unending clusterfuck of traffic wore on my nerves.
Darkness fell and we were still driving to the bus station. The streets were crammed full of taxis. I didn’t even know this bus company so I wasn’t sure where in the city we would end up. At last, we arrived at Avenue Grau near the center of Lima.
I had vowed to myself that I would not spend the night in the city. No surprises for Uncle Rico, no hostels. Huarez was my goal and to Huarez I was going, with no affordable delay. Thus, the first question that entered my mind as I got out of the bus and into the baggage line was when can I get the first bus out of here?
The Celtur bus station where I had arrived had no option for going north, so I grabbed a cab to the nearest bus station. This one had no rides to Huarez until the next day. The Tepsa station also had only morning rides. I finally paid the extra cab fare to get to old, reliable Cruz del Sur, which I knew had a 10:00 bus for Huarez.
Almost immediately after getting into the third cab, I developed a strong sense of fear and loathing towards the driver. He was a talker, one who switched between shouting to me in what little English he knew and incomprehensible Spanish. When I indicated that I couldn’t understand, he burst into grating laughter. “Hahahargh! Gringo! GRINGO! Hahahahahargh!” Disconcertingly, instead of taking me along the obvious route to the bus station I saw on the map he chose to weave through the sketchier neighborhoods, and changed directions four times. There were plenty of stories out there, including Rico’s, of stupid tourists that got kidnapped in their cabs, usually in bad neighborhoods and at night. Check, check, check. The fact that he was an obvious nut was also making me uncomfortable. When I asked him, why we weren’t taking the main roads, he only started laughing again, slapping his palm against the dashboard for emphasis. The fact that I was suspicious towards him was a fine source of hilarity. I
I was getting close to telling him to drop me off before his crazy terrorist accomplices jumped out from an alley, when we arrived at the Cruz del Sur terminal. “See?” The cabbie shouted “I take you there!” I got my stuff out and slammed the door, angry at myself and everyone I had dealt with over the last twenty-four hours.
As I walked through the doors of the Cruz del Sur terminal, serenity washed over me like cool water. I was rediscovering one of life’s little lesson’s—money is comfortable. A cheap collectivo taxi in Andahuaylas meant being crammed with other people, Cruz del Sur meant comfortable seats and reassuring isolation from others, especially the poor. Upon entering, the concept that I had money and would eventually pay for my ticket immediately buffered me from the urban nightmare outside.
The bus company interior was not a real place but a controlled environment where ATM’s were handy, security was watching and a cafeteria sold food for three times the price of what you would pay outside. The architecture shimmered with streamlined chome and could have been the set for a spaceship in a sci-fi movie. Unlike most other places, here everything was handily bilingual from the signs and intercom announcements to the people working the stations—no need to develop any more Spanish.
So I was not going to learn anything about Peruvian culture here. At this point, I was glad to eat shitty bus company food if only it meant that I could sit without being hassled. Not talking to anyone was fine too. I knew that my transportation was guaranteed, everything would be controlled and taken care of. There was no need for difficult thinking any more or lessons to learn. I had my money, they could take care of the rest.
The bus people checked my knapsack before I got on board and also filmed me with everyone else.
The bus ride from the city was like a dream. I was on the second floor in the front, looking down onto the street. I saw the people, the lights, the traffic and the rest of the insanity, but it was barely audible through the bus’s insulated walls. The ride was smooth as well. I might as well have been looking at a big television screen. I reclined and put the bus blanket over myself. I talked to a guy from Lima who had gotten his MBA in Tennessee. As the city gave way to empty highway, I finally relaxed completely.
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