Peru July 14, 2015
You can’t put paper in the toilets in South America. Every bathroom has a tiny trashcan, and in any bathroom potentially visited by tourists there is a sign that warns you about the plumbing, sometimes in multiple languages. For an American this requires concentration because dropping paper in the toilet is ingrained from childhood; you’re guaranteed to forget a few times. What do you do in those cases? Do you fish out the used wet paper? Or cross your fingers that you won’t be discovered? I’ve done both. You also have to acquire a new skill, the art of concealing the contents. This requires choosing the correct amount of paper so that it can be neatly folded after use. I think of this as the origami of toiletry. It occurs to me that if I could fold these little packets into swans and such, I might charm the maids who clean my rooms. Or maybe not... No matter, I can’t fold swans anyway, another of my many failings.
I’ve arrived in Arequipa, Peru. It was a death race for the last 30 miles or so. A mix of lumbering trucks, impatient buses and even more impatient taxis, all winding their way up and down the narrow mountain road full of fallen rocks. You know all that stuff you read about falling rocks on roadsigns in the states? Turns out the signs are misplaced, most of the rocks are in Peru. I suspect the rocks wised up and moved away from the signs.
You can’t just sit back and do 15 mph behind a dysfunctional truck, but you can’t let yourself get caught up in the game of chicken the taxis play. It’s a difficult ride. I find myself wondering if anyone would put up a road side shrine if I died? I pass dozens of others. (By the way, I don’t want a roadside shrine.)
As we enter town the trucks are diverted, but the buses and taxis and I get to plunge into an entirely different chaos. I have flashbacks of India. The streets have terrible potholes, no marked lanes, very few lights, and far too much activity. The driving is ruthlessly aggressive. I understand what’s going on, and I know that if I’m going to drive here I need to play the game. The other drivers need me to be aggressive in the right way. The hardest thing is to overcome my entrenched sense of appropriate space and timing. When I approach an intersection and the cars begin to move before I’ve reached them, that sends a signal in my brain that they don’t see me and I want to hit the brakes, but that’s a mistake. They see me, they’re just preparing to jump into the space behind.
I have to trust the opposition; they don’t want to hit me. I just wish I didn’t know that they're not as good as they think they are. Getting myself in the right psychological state is key; I have to try to enjoy this, and I cannot show fear. Unfortunately, on top of everything, I’m keeping one eye out for a hotel while another is trying to record data so that I’lll know where I’m at when I’m lost (which sounds contradictory, but isn’t entirely). This leaves fewer eyes than I’d like to watch for moron pedestrians, because apparently if you’re dressed in traditional costume you’re entitled to step into traffic at any moment. I don’t object to the principle, but if I was an old Incan woman I’d review that chart they show you in driver’s ed about the distance required to stop a moving vehicle.
It’s a unique, exhilarating experience to ride into a city like this, but it’s not pleasant. I’m very glad when I find a hotel and I can get off the bike. And yet, the chaos of the city has it’s rewards. Coming into an unknown place, figuring it out, and finding a hotel, feels like an achievement; I’ve conquered another city. I suppose this sense of accomplishment is one more reason that I ride.
I don’t do much in Arequipa. Wander the streets in the old town, eat a salad in a tourist joint, wash it down with a mug of coca tea, followed by hot rice pudding purchased on the street for thirty cents. There’s a dozen museums in town, but I don’t visit any of them.
In the morning I weave my way out of the spaghetti streets with unexpected ease. By luck I stop at the right gas station, ask the right question, and get the right instructions for navigating the next unmarked turn. I wonder if anyone in Peru has ever thought about road signs?
My nephew, Joe, offered three pieces of advice for this trip: Don’t die, don’t bleed out, and stay warm. I’m sorry, Joe, I’m afraid I've screwed up on one of the three.
I left Arequipa which is high in the mountains, and drove higher into the mountains. I’m a little confused about climate. Crossing the Andes some 1500 miles south of here, in the shadow of the tallest mountain in the Western Hemisphere, it was cold, and there were some white-capped peaks, but it was nothing like the fields of snow and freezing temps I rode through yesterday.
It was icy. I couldn’t tell if my hand warmers were working because my fingers were numb. I hadn’t anticipated such cold on this part of the trip, but the scenery almost made up for it: A live volcano, dozens of wild vicuña, and small flocks of llama and alpaca feeding on idyllic alpine fields tended by Incan women, stoic and colorful.
I did not stay warm, but I think I'm doing pretty well on the other two.
I might be too close to this to write about it. It’s not over. At the moment I’m in a “restaurant" off the plaza in Caylioma. The little Incan woman has a pleasant smile. They don’t all. I have a huge bowl of alphabet soup and a cup of coffee.
In my mind there are too many perspectives competing for attention. And it really all depends on what happens tomorrow.
I took the road less traveled. There’s paved highway between Chivay and Cusco, it’s about 300 miles, and it’s likely to have quite a bit of traffic, including trucks. There are also several routes that include unpaved stretches but cut the distance more or less in half. I’m happy to avoid the major highways, and curious about the backroads, but I don’t want to be stupid.
Back in Arequipa I searched for a good Atlas of Peru, and bought the best I could find. I also did extensive investigation with Google and Apple maps, and a GPS program on my phone. Unfortunately none of these sources is satisfying. In fact, they are all incomplete and worse, conflicting. Finally, I spoke to a half dozen people in Chivay. I showed them the atlas, and I asked them about the roads north to Cusco. They were happy to talk and they all gave me different stories. But they more or less agreed that the roads to Cusco were passable on the motorcycle.
However, I didn’t stop there, I took a practice ride to Cabanaconde, a village on the southern edge of the Colca Canyon (controversially billed as the deepest in the Western hemisphere). The road to Cabanaconde is also unpaved, and some of the maps depict it (or leave it off) in the same way they show the roads to Cusco. But several guidebooks highlight this road because it traces the edge of the canyon, and offers possibilities for condor sightings.
Sounds great; test the unpaved roads, see the canyon, watch for condors.
In fact, everything works out perfectly. The first thirty minutes are pretty easy; they always are. The road is rugged, but flat and manageable. After awhile the potholes grow deeper, and I’m climbing steadily, but I’m also gaining confidence. And then I come to this spot... The canyon opens before me, and I can see what the road is about to do. It's going to plunge about 75 feet down the face of the canyon, and immediately zip back up the other side. The slope would be dramatic on pavement, but on this surface it looks insane. I picture myself riding up the other side and tipping over. I come to a stop at the side of the road and stare in disbelief.
I’ve pretty much given up, decided I am too sane or gutless to go forward, when a bus approaches from behind. I watch it crawl down one side and up the other. It looks absurd. But damn if I’m going to let a bus pull this off while I tuck my tail and go home. There is no good reason I can’t do this.
I’m a pavement rider. I don’t like gravelly washboard roads. I hate gravelly washboard roads that go up and down steep inclines. I fear gravelly washboard roads that go up and down steep inclines along the side of 1000 foot drops. But intellectually, I know this isn’t difficult. It’s just my lack of experience that’s causing me to hesitate. I remind myself that wheels don’t even want to fall over. I envision tires rolling down a hill, their momentum keeps them upright. The trick on gravel is to trust the bike and stay off the brakes. Let the tires keep rolling.
So I follow the bus, and yes. it’s embarrassing to say it that way. The rest of the ride has a few more ups and downs, but my confidence grows. I can see that for an experienced gravel rider, this probably wouldn’t be that big a deal. The road does offer one more treat. There’s a tunnel maybe 300 meters long. It winds through the rock in such a way that you can’t see the end until you’re nearly there. And it has no lights. None. I stop in front of it, and laugh. It feels like I’m going to drive into a burrow. Inside it’s like spelunking on two wheels. It goes on and on, and I pass a van shortly before the exit; it kicks up so much dust I can’t see the floor. Wow! This tunnel instantly becomes one of the most memorable bits of road I’ve ever ridden. It wasn’t scary, just weird and unbelievable. When it’s done, my first thought is that tomorrow I’m recording it on the GoPro, because, of course, I have to go back to Chivay; this road more or less dead ends at Cabanaconde.
To be thorough, I don’t actually make it to Cabanaconde that night. I stop in another town that I think is Cabanaconde, and I ask in a little store about hotels. The guy informs me that I’m in one. It’s kind of late, and I’m reluctant to disappoint him, so I accept his offer to stay. His hotel sucks, but the town is interesting because it’s completely tourist free so I walk around and and ogle everything. Next morning I ride into Cabanaconde for breakfast. It’s crawling with tourists, but I find a very friendly little place run by a German. In fact, since it has decent wifi I hang out for several hours and wrap up my last post about Chile.
Afterwards I head back to Chivay. The retrurn trip is almost easy. I suspect there are three reasons: 1) I’ve begun to get comfortable with the gravel. 2) There are no surprises; I know exactly what’s coming. 3) I don’t have any choice, that little voice in the back of my head that kept whispering, “Stop, go back, this is stupid," is gone. Forwards is the only possibility.
Oh, and by the way, the canyon was awesome. The walls are terraced courtesy of ancient Incans; they look vaguely magical. And, I get a fantastic view of a couple condors. If I wasn’t on a motorcycle, or if all the roads in Peru were paved, this paragraph would be the whole story.
All of this has been a rather long-winded build-up to the fact that I decided to try the unpaved route to Cusco. I really thought I had done reasonable preparation. Yes, I knew that there could be surprises… Well, you already know I’m not in Cusco. There were surprises.
At about this point two little kids come and stare at me. They want to see the computer. At first I can’t think of anything to show them, but then I remember Photo Booth; we have a good time playing with the filters.
Writing all of this, eating soup, and playing with the kids has helped me to calm down a lot. I could now launch into a description of 30 miles of fear and trembling and stupidity unto death, but I don’t think I will. I don’t want to think about my day. Instead, I’m going to hope that tomorrow evening at this time, I am in a splendid hotel in Cusco, in a warm room with a bottle of wine, looking back at all of this with a sense of awe and amusement. Please let the roads be gentle.
Since I need to keep my mind occupied, and since I don’t have the capacity to focus on philosophy this evening, I think we should talk about hotels. Two nights ago I had the crappy hotel on the way to Cabanaconde. It was about $8, and I still felt ripped off; lousy beds, no heat, shared bathroom, no hot water, no wifi. I figured that would be the worst hotel of the trip. I was wrong. Tonight I’m in the $3 hotel. Wow.
Talk about funky decrepit; I love that they’ve got sheep in the courtyard, but I sure hope no one bumps into a wall or something, cause this whole place could come down. I’m pretty sure it was built by a an alcoholic with a glue gun. And apparently there’s no Home Depot in the neighborhood, which I think explains the creative use of cardboard and scrap metal.
Actually, the “clerk" is pretty nice, and he showed me up the steps (which I strode very carefully) and he asked me if the room is OK. So what am I going to say, “Do you have a clean one?” My options are not extensive. Besides, he only wants three bucks.
It’s one night, and I’ll be gone. How bad can it be? ... Sheesh, I wonder if they paid extra for the mattress with extreme lumps? In truth, I suspect it’s a homemade mattress, and I don’t want to know what it’s made out of. I’ll just be happy if the lumps don’t move. And the shared bathroom? There is no mirror, the sinks don’t work, the toilets don’t have seats or paper, and be very careful in the third stall–one false step and you’ll be down in the courtyard peeing with the sheep. Some people might think 3 out of 4 isn’t a bad proportion, but I’m something of a completist when it comes to walls; I like them in sets of four.
But between these two nights of miserable hotels, I spent $90 for something of a resort room in Chivay. It’s pretty crazy that that this hotel should exist at all, but I suppose it’s the place you would find if you tried to book a stay in advance. Because Chivay is the jumping off point for the canyon, it's got a significant tourist component. The hotel is very nice. It’s a compound of individual adobe buildings, neatly landscaped. They have hot water, and heat lamps in the bathroom. They have wifi (though painfully slow) and old men who carry your luggage. They have comfortable beds and a nightstand with a glossy magazine containing articles in English and Spanish about surfing, photographing Incan ruins, and the state of Peruvian poetry.
From low to high and back again. Obviously I kind of relish being in this $3 dump. It’s not just bad, it’s bad enough to write about. Most importantly, I get to leave in the morning. The truly horrific thing is that there are families living in this “hotel.” That’s not even remotely funny.
I’m curious about the relation between poverty and order and cleanliness. The friendly restaurant where I played with the kids is in abysmal condition. The walls are scarred and stained, and paint is scraped away in huge swaths. Faded, torn and crumpled posters are taped to the wall with way too much two inch tape, yellow and peeling. Why? Every little store is cluttered, dark and dingy. Why? When you peek into the courtyards of the houses, they’re like mini-junkyards. Why?
The complexity of the social situation in South America defies generalization, and probably understanding. What you see is the chaos of colliding systems: traditional indigenous culture, colonial Catholism, extreme class awareness, industrial imperialism demanding labor and resources, the ideologies of capitalism and socialism, technology in all its baffling forms (running water to cars to cell phones) and the relentless invasion of media.
In Chile, they seem to care about keeping the streets clean. I saw countless old men with brooms sweeping. Driving out of Iquique I was awed by an image I’ll never forget: A small man with a broom and a couple dozen piles of dirt stretched along several hundred feet of curb, a day’s work, I’d guess. And beyond the curb? An infinity of sand.
In Peru there’s old women selling tea on the street. They have carts with a large pot full of boiling leaves and a row of six or seven brightly colored herbal extracts. You sit on a bench in front of the cart and they perform the ritual of mixing the ingredients and straining the result. They serve the sweet concoction in a mug for 30 cents. It’s Koolaid stand as folk art. If they serve 15 cups, they might be able to afford a latte at Starbucks.
Technology is a many-faceted awesome monstrosity. Perhaps its most visceral symbol is the cars and buses, vans and motorcycles, trucks and three wheeled pedicabs that dominate the urban landscape. In both major cities and small towns they are a scourge upon the earth. They are loud, they are filthy, they stink. The rumbling engines and the honking horns create a constant cacophony, they interrupt your thought and wake you from sleep. But worse, the vehicles belch visible exhaust. Everywhere you go, you smell it. Sometimes it feels like I can’t get the scent out of my snot-filled nostrils. It’s unfair. These people don’t deserve such crap. Technology created in Europe and America, commoditized in China, dumped on the hapless poor who don’t have the cultural elements in place to use it without creating as many problems as it solves.
To be sure, things aren’t necessarily different in the U.S., are they? Or at least, the difference is only a matter of degree. We battle with the scourge of technology in every aspect of our lives. When I see the honking taxi bellowing exhaust and driving like a maniac, I’m reminded of my poor uneducated neighbors who drive trucks whose engines wake the dead, and blast music at distortion levels from their crappy car stereos. Sometimes I have the uncharitable thought that my neighbors don’t deserve their toys; they’re unreflective animals who’ve bought shiny baubles they can’t understand or use appropriately. But in many respects they are merely victims of modernity. And what am I offering as solution, that everyone should play music at the decibel level I approve, and buy the cars that I approve, and drive the way that I approve, and think the thoughts that I approve. Well yes, kind of, cause I’m educated and reflective. All things are complex.
In Southern Peru, Claró, a cell phone vendor, has inscribed their name in enormous letters on the sides of mountains using the techniques of the ancient geoglyphs. It’s a sickening display of corporate evil, it’s a graffiti of greed writ large upon the landscape. How short-sighted and shameless! It’s so satisfying to feel righteous indignation.
In Moquegua, there is an ancient woman in a bowler hat with vacant eyes sitting in the dust on the sidewalk with a half dozen cherimoya on a brightly colored towel. I want to apologize to her for the world.
I did not make it to Cusco, but I did not die, nor drive off the edge of the world, nor even drop the bike in a lake of mud. I’ve returned to Chivay. I am in a nice hotel with a bottle of wine, but I don’t much feel like drinking. It has been a couple days of intense emotions, and I am drained.
I realize that I’ve set this up rather dramatically, but honestly, yesterday was one of the hardest of my life. Psychologically, I faced fear and doubt in ways I don’t think I ever have. Safe and sound back in Chivay, it feels a bit silly and exaggerated, but the reality of my experience was more dramatic than anything I’ll be able to write.
Yesterday started well, and I drove out of Chivay in high spirits. The paved road went even further than the atlas suggested. When it turned to dirt I was prepared. There were options before me, but I chose the route on which I could see a convoy of three large trucks hauling prefab housing. Obviously they were going somewhere. (In the end I don't know where they went.) The road was steep and more rugged than I might have preferred, but I was confident.
I had invested at least 90 minutes of hard slow effort into the route before the first mud appeared. The first few patches were unremarkable, and I easily picked a dryish path around them, but with each mile the challenge increased. At about two and a half hours in I faced my first existential crisis. There was a series of deep muddy puddles arrayed on a fairly steep incline with a rock wall on one side and a 100 foot drop on the other.
There was no path around them, there was no sane path through them. I parked and listened to the noise in my head:
One voice: I can’t do this. I shouldn’t do this. I don’t want to do this. I’ve made a mistake. Go back.
One voice: It’s just mud, you ride through it, you get dirty, big deal. Another 10 miles and according to the atlas we’re past the worst of it. Another 20 miles and we hit the paved road. You can’t give up now. What, retrace 2 1/2 hours of miserable potholes and washboard?
One voice: Stupid fucking idiot. Couldn’t just take the goddamned highway like normal people. You had to be special. And now you’ve fucked up everything. You know what’s going to happen, you’re going to drop the bike in the mud, and there’s no fucking way you’re going to get it picked up. And you’re going to lose the computer and the phone and you’re probably going to die right here. Moron. (This voice was especially obnoxious, and not at all helpful.)
One voice: Relax, consider the options. Sit down for a bit, there’s no hurry. Odds are there’s a solution. Worst case is death, but far more likely is minor injury, misc. bike damage, major ego bruise. These are the risks; you knew them going in.
One voice: Let’s dump the bike over the ledge. You can catch a ride back into town and fly home. It’s over, it’s OK, you don’t have to deal with this at all. Walk away.
One voice: Would you all shut up! It’s awfully hard to think over all this chatter.
As I stand there, the three trucks which I’ve passed as they rested a few miles back slowly scrape by me and plunge into the mud. Wow, so that’s how it’s done.
I hit on a solution: I remove all the gear from the bike and walk it across. That makes the bike easier to handle, easier to lift if I drop it, and protects the gear. I do my best to measure the depth of the puddles and visualize a path across them. I try to calm my breathing (which isn’t easy because I’m at ridiculous altitude, and even unloading the bike has me winded).
I roll through the mud with relative ease, but I am trembling with a mix of relief and fear for what lies ahead. The fear is not unjustified. The next miles show me puddles and mud in every mix I might care to imagine. And I make all the mistakes of inexperience. Somehow I stall the bike in the middle of one puddle. I stand there ankle deep wanting to cry. In another case I realize half way up a small hill that there is deep mud in front of me, and I need to switch lanes. Foolishly I brake, and my boots won’t grip the ground. The bike and I slide backwards about a foot before regaining traction. I can taste my heart in the back of my throat.
And yet, in each case, I pull through somehow. One explanation is that none of this is nearly as difficult as my mind is making it out to be. But the objective scale of difficulty is wholly irrelevant, I am judge, jury, executioner and condemned all wrapped into one. I am creating my own reality, and I’ve made it into a horror movie.
On one more occasion I remove the gear from the bike before I plunge into a shallow pond, nearly certain that this is where I end it all, but by this point I’m as terrified of going back as going forward.
Finally I come to a little place called Pusa Pusa. Men congregate on the road in front of a dingy shop. I stop and chat with them, and drink an Inca Kola. (Looks like fluorescent urine, tastes like Big Red.) They’re pleased to see me, and we all shake hands, and they’re interested to see my atlas. They’re very encouraging; they say the road gets better after Caylioma. I’m encouraged, but somehow I don't trust them.
When I arrive in Caylioma, I’m exhausted, and I know that I need to stop. If I wanted non-touristy Peru, I think I I’ve found it. I take the crap hotel, and write to ease my mind.
I spend a restless night in poverty, tossing and turning and worrying about the morrow. Incredibly more guests show up in the middle of the night. I hear them drive in, and I hear every sound they make before they get into bed. In the morning there is ice on everything. I shiver in the three wall toilet. From my window, I watch a small group of Inca women gather with bags of produce on the square. I wrap my computer and phone in plastic bags. I delay returning to the road as long as possible.
Thirty minutes out of Caylioma and it’s all over. The road ends at a river. I can tell that it went through at some point because I can see the other side 50 feet on. But this water is at least two feet deep, and moving rapidly. The bottom is large stones. What road there may have been is gone. The only good thing is that there is no option to go forward, not a hint of temptation. Stupid Peruvians and their useless stupid atlas. I can blame them all I want, but this is my doing. I brought myself here, and now I have to get myself out. I’ve got to retrace the nightmare from yesterday.
For a few moments I seriously consider stopping in Caylioma and trying to hire a truck to take me back, but I can’t stand the idea of hanging out in that town waiting. I made it out here, I guess I suppose I can probably make it back, maybe. God, I don’t want to do this.
But I do. And it’s easier the second time, but not as much as I wish. In fact, much of what I did was uphill, and hairpin turns are quite a bit more intimidating on the way down, not least because you can see exactly where your body will lie mangled below if your tires slip over the edge, but mainly because gravity works for Satan.
When I finally hit the pavement I am in no mood to celebrate. But I am amazed at how smooth the road feels. It’s like I'm gliding. Most of the way back to Chivay I can see it's volcano before me, a small turret of smoke rising above. I don’t have very many thoughts.
Now I am back in Chivay, and I'll stay here for a couple days to recuperate. I don’t have any desire to do anything.
I don’t know what to make of this adventure. Maybe this is why I’m here, to face parts of myself that I just never do in my normal life, to test my limits. But that’s now how I think of myself. I'm not a thrill seeker.
In some ways I’m glad that I tried, and proud that I made it back. The fact that I never dropped the bike is satisfying. The closest thing I’ve ever done to this was the road to Tikal from Belize into Guatemala. I dropped my Honda at least twice on that road.
On the other hand, I’m embarrassed that I let myself try this; I think it was stupid and unnecessary. And I’m even more embarrassed that I made such a big deal out of it on the way. I fear that another rider might find it a bumpy, scenic day trip, exactly what my bike was made for. It certainly was scenic. I took virtually no pictures, but it was mountains, and streams, and fields and lots of llamas and alpacas. I was hoping to see llamas and alpacas, and now I have.
I can’t regret this. It was what happened, and want it or not, it’s mine forever.
Turned out I couldn't leave Chivay on Sunday because my front brakes weren't working right. Perhaps all that rattling somehow introduced air into the brake line. Anyway I waited until today, Monday, and went to a bike shop (well, I went to a cinderblock building with no sign where a couple guys fiddle around with motorcycles). They replaced the brake fluid, and now it seems fine. I also used the opportunity to clean the chain. Then I headed out to Puno, a town on Lake Titicaca. Tomorrow, Cusco.
Ben Horne
Ben was the station manager at KTRU when I was suspended. We fought together against Rice administration when they shut us down for refusing to embrace their vision of the station as a sports outlet. There’s many complex details here not worth rehashing, but Ben and I worked together pretty closely and became friends in the way you do when you share a cause. But six months later someone complained that I was talking too much on air, and Ben’s job was to enforce the rules. He and the other undergraduates managing the station fumbled badly. For Ben and I the issue became somewhat personal. Though things weren’t entirely his fault, I held him responsible for my suspension. I sometimes imagined that we would meet again, and he would apologize. I wasn’t sure if I would forgive him, but I thought if he was sincere, I might.
Ben died three years ago today, July 13, 2012, climbing mountains in Peru.
He was an impressive guy. He was a Rice student involved in numerous activities, he was outgoing and charming, and he was highly motivated. He was a bit too straight-laced at times, and yet he was funny and could be irreverent. He came from a background of money and of faith. I suspect his family played a lot of board games. He considered himself Christian, but not in a rigid way. He strongly believed in moral right. He loved music. After Rice, he joined the Peace Corps, and apparently that’s where he discovered a love for climbing and outdoor sports. He had nearly finished a Ph.D. in Economics at UC San Diego; it was awarded posthumously. I suspect he would have spent his life fighting for good causes.
I was stunned when I discovered that he had died. It raised many peculiar emotions. I admired and respected him very much, but he was also a foe. He died too soon. Randomly.
This evening I went into the big church on the plaza in Puno. I lit a candle for Ben, and I wished him well to God. Then I realized this might be my best opportunity to forgive him. So I did. And then I sat down and cried. For him, for me, for the world.
This is a link to his memorial website: www.MaintaintheLight.org
And another to a summary of his life: http://economics.ucsd.edu/facRes/inMemoriam/horneBen/
