Huaraz & Lima (9/1-9/6)

After being dropped off about a half-mile past the Chimbote bus station (whoops) at 8:10am, we made a quick turnaround, and by 8:30am we had snacks and were on our way to Huaraz via Cañon del Pato (Duck Canyon).

Now, we weren´t sure exactly why they´d specified the route, except that perhaps there were multiple routes up to the secluded mountain town and trekking oasis. As it turns out, this was exactly right, and the Cañon del Pato manifested as an incredibly bumpy, dusty dirt road that wound through a deep canyon, the towering cliff faces devoid of vegetation, dropping steeply to the river far below. The bus moved slowly (no movie this time, categories were ¨Tom Cruise Movies,¨ ¨Bill Murray Movies,¨ and ¨Famous People with the First Name John¨), frequently ¨ducking¨ through rough tunnels hewn out of the sandstone.

We passed a hydroelectric facility, but other than that few inhabitants lived in the shadows of the canyon walls - we only saw a few roadside stands, made of fiberglass sheets that glimmered faintly through the all-consuming dust. We stopped briefly for lunch, then continued on, completing the 8-hour trip late in the afternoon. We threw ourselves from the bus, but didn´t have enough energy to fend off the myriad locals who descended upon us immediately, offering lodging and special deals on the most famous trek in the area, the 4-day sendero (trail) de Santa Cruz.

We wearily followed one of the men to a hostal, then set out, determined to make plans for the trek the following day. We´d initially heard of the trail from a British man in the refugio on Cotopaxi, who´d recommended it as an introductory or training trail before trying the more challenging Pisco peak, located nearby. However, our brief research that evening revealed that the Santa Cruz trail was usually done in large tourist groups, and that to hire a car to drive you to the start of the trail would be comparable in price. Our malcontent at this information dissipated slightly when I discovered a Scotia Bank nearby (Scotia Bank is the only sister bank to Bank of America located in South America, though I´d read it was only found in the French Guianas. Those who have traveled with me before know that I will go to great lengths to avoid the international ATM fees, and that I am an expert on the B of A sister banks in more than 9 countries).

That night, to avoid making any decision on the Santa Cruz front, we decided to try some local delicacies. We had some type of rice pudding, with bits of raisin and cinammon mixed in. We tried chicha (in Ecuador chicha is a corn-beer, made from human-chewed corn, but in Peru, chicha moreno is a bubblegum-flavored purple beverage that is served either hot or cold, and reminds me a bit of Irn Bru - a bizarre orange soda favored by the Scots that we encountered on our journeys last summer). I think Scott had another street-vended papa rellena (potato stuffed with meat, lettuce, and various sauces). And to top it all off, we had chifa, or Chinese food, which is always drowned in MSG, and ice cream, thankfully not drowned in anything.

We got back to our hotel room, and that´s when I realized that I had not yet overcome my illness. I spent the entire next day and most of the following one bedridden. I finished Dharma Bums, then moved on to the incredibly disappointing White Fang, which I think I would have enjoyed if I were a 12 year old boy (this hypothesis would be confirmed later by two American boys I met, who both loved the book when they were in middle school).

The problem with me getting sick, besides being awful in general, was that we were actually on something of a tight schedule - we arrived in Huaraz on September 1st, and we needed to be in Cusco (29 hours of bus rides away) by September 6th, to start our job as bartenders at a hostel. Me being totally incapacitated for 48 hours, therefore, effectively eliminated any chance of doing the 4-day Santa Cruz trek. We did, however, visit a trout farm and do laundry while in Huaraz, which, of course, is much cooler anyway.

Also, when I was feeling better, we were out for an evening stroll when Scott spotted the unmistakeable sight of a gymnasium through a recessed doorway. To our great surprise and delight, it turned out to be open gym volleyball! Pretty soon, we were engaged in hitting lines with a mixture of young girls, women, and two men. There was even a coach! After the hitting lines, we played a 6-on-6 match with them, and it was the highest-quality volleyball I think I´ve experienced at an open gym. It felt good to move around, to sweat, and to get our hands on some good old-fashioned sports. A fantastic evening.

But we couldn´t leave without doing any trekking. Our Cotopaxi Refugio friend had also told us about an incredible day hike, up to Laguna 69. Fortuitously, the day after I recovered mostly, a bus was leaving from our hostel at 7am, driving to the trail, then offering rides back in the afternoon for 40 Peruvian soles (approximately 2.65 soles per one USD, or one sol equals approximately 40 cents). In typical Scott and Hayley fashion, we decided we could probably do the same trip for cheaper, on our own. Plus, we knew we could catch a bus to Lima that night (the only viable route to Cusco involves traveling all the way to the coast, before returning to the mountains) from a town further back down the road towards Lima, which was the direction of Laguna 69 anyway.

Sendero de Laguna 69
We set out around 9am, took a colectivo to Yungay (about 1.5 hours) for 5 soles each, then shared a taxi (another 1.5 hours) to the trailhead with a German couple for 15 soles each (we also had to pay 5 soles each to enter the Parque Nacional de Huascaran)...it began to look like we may have made a mistake in forgoing the hostel bus. However, the taxi driver was jovial, interesting, and informative, and humored my Spanish with gusto. He also stopped to let us gaze upon a beautiful, incredibly azure lake along the way, then gave us good advice about the trailhead. When we arrived, at about 12pm, he warned us that the last buses and cars along that road would be leaving around 3:30 or 4pm, and offered to wait the 6 hours he though the hike would take us, in exchange for 80 soles.

We thanked him, but were determined to beat someone back down the trail, then beg them for a ride back into Yungay to catch our night bus to Lima. And so we began a race to the top. The trail led down into a valley and along a small river, sloping gently upwards until the valley tapered out, with dark, snowy mountains looming at the end. The taxi driver had advised us to stay to the right of the river, so - of course - we immediately found ourselves on the left side, with no clear point at which to cross. Furthermore, a few rowdy-looking mules quit their grazing to follow us at a slow and ominous stride...

Eventually we realized we really needed to cross the river, or else we might be obliged to backtrack all the way to the trailhead, an option clearly ill-advised if we were to make it to the lake and back. Scott went for the bold step-on-the-slippery-looking-rock-and-hope-its-not tactic, which left him with two soaking shoes and wet pant legs, which was worrying, since temperatures were clearly low enough for snow (giant glaciers overlooked the trail throughout). I tried the throw-myself-across-at-the-narrowest-point-and-land-gracelessly-on-my-face tactic, which worked a bit better. Since I´m the whinier and sicker of the two, it´s probably a good thing I didn´t get wet, but Scott did.

From our crossing, the trail wound gently up the valley´s rise, passing horses, bulls, and mules grazing in the scrubby grass. The broken boulders were reminiscent of the High Sierras, the gnarled trees indicative of the harsh and windy conditions. At the end of the valley, the trail began relatively manageable switchbacks up the hillside, opposite a roaring, 200-foot cascade that looked more like rapids turned on their side. We overtook a European couple, but they were planning on camping that night at the lake, so we couldn´t beg them for a ride back. I was struggling a bit with the pace Scott was setting, breathing hard and feeling lightheaded (I certainly wasn´t at 100% health yet, but I also wasn´t about to miss this hike), so when we met a pair of Peruvian men on their way down, I must´ve looked haggard. We asked them if we could make it to the top and back down, and the man gave me the most encouraging slap on the back I´ve ever received. ¨Fuerza! Fuerza! Rapido!¨ he counselled, then pushed me on my way.

The switchbacks levelled out right beneath a surprisingly blue glacier, whose rounded leading edge teetered precariously a hundred feet above us. At the next steep uphill, which led through a gap of crumbling rock, we passed three Israelis, who said that although they didn´t have much space, we could probably catch a ride back with them.

The gap opèned onto an enormous high-altitude grazing field; a small lake opened onto the wet, cold, grassy field, cow pies decorated the trail, and a group of what appeared to be sherpas with firewood relaxed in a rocky outcrop, protected from the biting wind. We crossed the field easily, and other Israelis we passed coming down told us there was just one more incline before the Laguna 69. At the start of the incline, we´d been hiking for only about an hour and a half, thanks to Scott´s indomitable striding and our lack of breaks. Each of the switchbacks of this final set brought us closer to the impending snowy peaks, and to better vistas of the meadow, the waterfall, and the lower glaciers. And with nearly every switchback, we encountered hikers who could not summon the courage to summit, but instead sat, bug-eyed, salty-mouthed and gasping, at the edge of the trail.

We reached the top at around 2:10pm, which was fairly impressive for a supposed 6-hour round-trip hike. And it was worth it.

The trip back down only took us about an hour and a half, and we hiked with two Israelis who confirmed they would give us a ride in their bus. Apparently, South America is one of the primary destinations for Israeli youth to travel after they´ve done their time in the army, and we should expect to find a true bounty of them in Bolivia.

When we got back to the trailhead, however, we noticed a familiar-looking taxi...our driver had decided to wait for us anyway, as he was worried we´d get stuck! We had a choice: we could ride down to Yungay with the Israelis for free (although we´d have to wait for all of their group to make it down the mountain), or we could pay our driver 15 soles to drive us back to town. In a shocking and uncharacteristic display of not being cheap, we went with our driver, as I think we were both a bit touched by his loyalty.

On the drive, we passed a British couple about our age, who gladly hopped in, and turned out to be hilarious. Then, just outside the park entrance, we stopped and picked up three young Peruvian men, bringing the total in the five-seater sedan to eight. Needless to say, the ride down was greatly amusing, and when we arrived in Yungay, we were in such good spirits that we invited the Brits, Abby and Tom, to grab a beer with us, before heading back to their hostal in Huaraz.

This ended up being quite the misadventure, since we couldn´t find anywhere that sold cold beers, but we did catch the tail-end of some type of street festival, replete with a brass band and a drunk smashing full beer bottles in the street. Abby and Tom left as night fell, and it turned out that - for whatever reason - all the electricity in Yungay was out for the evening. There also seemed to be some shortage of candles, so we spent about two hours wandering unfamiliar streets by the (blinding) light of my headlamp.

The bus to Lima was uneventful, and we arrived at 4:30am just in time to nap at the bus station.

Lima

Once the other bus companies opened, we shopped around until we found a 3:30pm bus that would take us to Cusco in 22 hours. For the buses, there are three options in Peru; you can take a cama, or bed, which is the most expensive option and features a large chair that reclines entirely, you may opt for a semi-cama, which is similar but only reclines most of the way, or you can go cheaply with the economico option, which is a normal bus seat, with incredibly limited leg room. So far, we´ve ended up in semi-camas, which are plenty comfortable for a night´s sleep.

Just like in Guayaquil, we had some time to explore the city, and only one real idea owf where to go - Miraflores. This region of the otherwise congested, dirty, and supposedly dangerous city is where all tourists are found, replete with MacDonald´s, Starbucks, Scotia Bank, and an all-inclusive waterfront mall, where prices rival that of Hollywood. We took a harrowing journey in one of the city´s tiny buses (think a 15-passenger van stuffed with about 30 people, with a man hanging out the doorway shouting the destination as the driver maneuvers the vehicle past the other careening buses and various pedestrians) to Miraflores, then spent an hour trying to find somewhere for breakfast, which apparently is completely unavailable at 8am. By 9am, we´d eaten some unsatisfying sandwiches (¨caprese¨ in Peru apparently means two thin slices of mozzarella and a paltry tomato on white bread) and were seated at one of the many casinos in the area.

[aside] Now, those of you who know about Scott and my trip last year in Europe will know that Scott´s casino radar is on-par with my Bank of America partner bank radar, and that we had some unusual good luck at casinos in Amsterdam. By ¨unusual good luck,¨ I mean that when we arrived in the city, before looking for food or a hostel, we waltzed into a hole-in-the-wall casino, accidentally bet two Euros on 31 black, and won 72 Euros. Later, we discovered that if we made minimum bets at the casino near our hostel around closing time, it was easy to snag several pre-wrapped sandwiches from the front desk as we left, and hence we spent almost no money on food in Amsterdam.

After some casino betting (and winning!), we headed to the malecon for some fresh sea air. As it turned out, the malecon was an expensive beachcliff resort-style affair, and it took us quite some time (and lots of sitting on benches, half-asleep) for us to actually figure out how to get down to the beach. I was on the verge of falling asleep on my feet, since waking up at 4:30am after an intense hike is not exactly the most restful of scenarios. However, should you ever travel to Lima, you should know that, at least in the Miraflores region, lying on patches of grass for a quick catnap is extremely frowned upon. If you simply wish to sit on the same patch of grass, though, you are entirely welcome to do so.

We made it down the cliffs and across the beachfront freeway thoroughfare to find a beach riddled with large stones, facing a breakwater featuring a few kilometers of slowly-curling waves. Scott made some friends with the local surf bums, promising to return in a few weeks (empty, empty promises). Then, to keep ourselves entertained, we made a 20-minute-long film of our hike back up to the city, featuring shouting at cars and me making grotesque faces in the background of Scott´s serious commentary. We watched it on the bus, later, and found it to be less than hilarious.

We made it back to the bus station with minutes to spare (Scott had stopped in another casino), and settled down to a quiet, 22-hour bus ride to Cusco, and to our new home.