Note to the reader: Living somewhere for two months is a strange affair. Though we are only three days in, there is a definite rhythm – both in the town and our group. Already, we eat similar meals at identical times, leave and return like clockwork, and gather to talk… almost robotically. As such, it doesn’t make much sense to repeat, textually, much of our days – if you’ve been following us, you’ve already read about it. Plus, it makes these late-night notes easier to write. Cheers!, Roberto.
Today was a day of underground mischief. Though Dr. Rick left for Huaraz, we had his wife, Rosa (an archaeologist herself), here to guide us about the site. At her behest, we brought our cameras and flashlights on a rollicking expedition a few fathoms down.span style="font-family:lucida grande;">The Chavín monument is riddled with underground passages – or gallerías, as they are called here. These “galleries” wind about, often ending in ventilation windows or small cells. The initiates used to stumble about drugged, until they met the Lanzon. As I said before, the Lanzon statue is iconographic – easily identifiable by most Peruvians. It was a bit of a surprise, then, when Rosa got the temple guards to unlock the gate that blocked the Lanzon off – it was as if we were allowed to touch the Incan Sphinx.
After a few obligatory pictures with the icon – Incan gangsigns, anyone? – Rosa led us out past the first rush of toursits, to exhaustively cover the conservation of the site. Workers were slowly reinforcing many of the underground gallerias with troncos – tarred wooden trunks. They stepped aside to let us wriggle through, and though we watched our elbows and hips, many of us came out a shade darker. Pronouncing herself satisfied in Spanish-scattered English, Rosa adjourned us for lunch.
A light lunch led us into serious discussion – what to do, now that we had seen most of the site? Cesar, one of Dr. Rick’s collaborators, offered to take us into the Rocas Canal – a sluice that drains the entire site, many meters belowground – around three in the afternoon. So, true to form, we headed back to the galleries to kill a couple hours. We entered a few of the forbidden ones, flashlights in hand. If there were lights, they had long since kicked the bucket, and the few of us that had lamps moved warily through the dark, clutching, now and again, at the smooth, cold stone. When we finally reached a dead end, we became a jumble of warm bodies, lights strobing on the ceiling as people ducked by each other, back the way we came.
There was a shock waiting outside the temple entrance. As our eyes adjusted to the light, we saw that the tourists, usually Peruvian devotees from the neighboring capital, were pale as bone. Fellow gringos! The leader, an overly enthusiastic ophthalmologist from Arkansas, twanged about it was “just so (sEWWW) good to beee here!” to Rosa, who backed away as the stranger advanced. Cat and mouse, they tap-danced over the mound, the lady introducing all of her group in turn – apparently, a backwoods church clan that had come to bring contact lenses to the natives. Mmm… good for them. I wish they had come bearing internet, instead.
Our last escapade, six feet under, was a jaunt into the Rocas Canal. John Rick thinks it functioned not only as a drainage canal, but also as a burial grounds and hallucinogenic noisemaker. All we had seen, so far, was a gaping incision into the shaft – a sinkhole near the main plaza. Before we went in, Cesar warned the five students allowed in (more to go later) that our knees and unwatched extremities would be subject to a wonderful-smelling blend of bat “orina y mierda” – literally, “piss and shit.”
Apparently the murcielagos (bats) of Rocas Canal took up residence after the Chavín left, and have been cheerfully bumping into things for millennia. Disregard, reader, that bats have an astonishing system of echolocation; disregard that these bats are used to not only their canal home, but venturing spelunkers – the Retarded Bats of Rocas Canal swerve and hold their droppings for no man. Or any woman, for that matter.
Cesar led the way in a stooped crouch; the ceiling hung too low for any modern human to stand in. Visible only as a pair of shifting haunches, backlit by LED lamps, Cesar waddled, us in tow, for a good 100 meters before the first obstacle. The Retarded Bats, as we fondly called them, had left a small cesspool, rendering the canal impassable. The only way through was to hold your breath and wade, so to speak – fording the river with a hop, skip, & jump. The septic mix swelled over our shoes in spurts. Thanks be to Walmart, then, who sold me these shoes for the bat-shit crazy price of $19.99.
The next straightaway was home to more of the mentally challenged rats. Though they roosted in the crevices of the ceiling, each bat seemed to find the floor suddenly irresistible. The only warning you had before they winged into your face was a subtle shudder in the air, like the quiet opening of a fan. And then, in seconds, they would be on you – in your hair, on your chest, screeching your shared discontent for milliseconds before dropping past with another shudder. It all happened before you could blink (or take a picture), so much of our stygian odyssey was fraught with the awkward half-sounds of stillborn screams.
A few more crawlspaces, and Cesar let our people go… through a small hole in the wall. We wormed towards daylight, emerging in the dusk light by the main plaza stair. Though perhaps an hour had passed, we had gone no more than a minute’s walk.
Cesar eagerly described the rest of the canal to us in rapid Spanish, characterizing the sluice as an active diary of the Chavín . Each new expansion needed a drain, and so the construction changes as they do. He waxed optimistic, too – hoping to connect the canals, and restore the canal to full, raging use. Darwin would approve - the stupid bats´ days are numbered.
Before bed, we badgered Sara and Matt, Dr. Rick’s kids, into screening another movie for us. This time, we put up the classic High Fidelity. It was decent, though I do think Jack Black made the film. Anyway, the real trip was getting so engrossed in home-culture again. I know, I know – day three… but I suddenly wanted french fries. It was two hours of glorious, unaccented English, filled with artists I knew, memes I loved… it was easy. The strange thing was watching the credits roll and coming back to ourselves. The communion broken, each of us realized we weren’t in LA, or Maryland, or Main Street, USA. We were cold, it was night; outside the woolen curtains, Peru slept.
Today was a day of underground mischief. Though Dr. Rick left for Huaraz, we had his wife, Rosa (an archaeologist herself), here to guide us about the site. At her behest, we brought our cameras and flashlights on a rollicking expedition a few fathoms down.span style="font-family:lucida grande;">The Chavín monument is riddled with underground passages – or gallerías, as they are called here. These “galleries” wind about, often ending in ventilation windows or small cells. The initiates used to stumble about drugged, until they met the Lanzon. As I said before, the Lanzon statue is iconographic – easily identifiable by most Peruvians. It was a bit of a surprise, then, when Rosa got the temple guards to unlock the gate that blocked the Lanzon off – it was as if we were allowed to touch the Incan Sphinx.
After a few obligatory pictures with the icon – Incan gangsigns, anyone? – Rosa led us out past the first rush of toursits, to exhaustively cover the conservation of the site. Workers were slowly reinforcing many of the underground gallerias with troncos – tarred wooden trunks. They stepped aside to let us wriggle through, and though we watched our elbows and hips, many of us came out a shade darker. Pronouncing herself satisfied in Spanish-scattered English, Rosa adjourned us for lunch.
A light lunch led us into serious discussion – what to do, now that we had seen most of the site? Cesar, one of Dr. Rick’s collaborators, offered to take us into the Rocas Canal – a sluice that drains the entire site, many meters belowground – around three in the afternoon. So, true to form, we headed back to the galleries to kill a couple hours. We entered a few of the forbidden ones, flashlights in hand. If there were lights, they had long since kicked the bucket, and the few of us that had lamps moved warily through the dark, clutching, now and again, at the smooth, cold stone. When we finally reached a dead end, we became a jumble of warm bodies, lights strobing on the ceiling as people ducked by each other, back the way we came.
There was a shock waiting outside the temple entrance. As our eyes adjusted to the light, we saw that the tourists, usually Peruvian devotees from the neighboring capital, were pale as bone. Fellow gringos! The leader, an overly enthusiastic ophthalmologist from Arkansas, twanged about it was “just so (sEWWW) good to beee here!” to Rosa, who backed away as the stranger advanced. Cat and mouse, they tap-danced over the mound, the lady introducing all of her group in turn – apparently, a backwoods church clan that had come to bring contact lenses to the natives. Mmm… good for them. I wish they had come bearing internet, instead.
Our last escapade, six feet under, was a jaunt into the Rocas Canal. John Rick thinks it functioned not only as a drainage canal, but also as a burial grounds and hallucinogenic noisemaker. All we had seen, so far, was a gaping incision into the shaft – a sinkhole near the main plaza. Before we went in, Cesar warned the five students allowed in (more to go later) that our knees and unwatched extremities would be subject to a wonderful-smelling blend of bat “orina y mierda” – literally, “piss and shit.”
Cesar led the way in a stooped crouch; the ceiling hung too low for any modern human to stand in. Visible only as a pair of shifting haunches, backlit by LED lamps, Cesar waddled, us in tow, for a good 100 meters before the first obstacle. The Retarded Bats, as we fondly called them, had left a small cesspool, rendering the canal impassable. The only way through was to hold your breath and wade, so to speak – fording the river with a hop, skip, & jump. The septic mix swelled over our shoes in spurts. Thanks be to Walmart, then, who sold me these shoes for the bat-shit crazy price of $19.99.
The next straightaway was home to more of the mentally challenged rats. Though they roosted in the crevices of the ceiling, each bat seemed to find the floor suddenly irresistible. The only warning you had before they winged into your face was a subtle shudder in the air, like the quiet opening of a fan. And then, in seconds, they would be on you – in your hair, on your chest, screeching your shared discontent for milliseconds before dropping past with another shudder. It all happened before you could blink (or take a picture), so much of our stygian odyssey was fraught with the awkward half-sounds of stillborn screams.
A few more crawlspaces, and Cesar let our people go… through a small hole in the wall. We wormed towards daylight, emerging in the dusk light by the main plaza stair. Though perhaps an hour had passed, we had gone no more than a minute’s walk.
Cesar eagerly described the rest of the canal to us in rapid Spanish, characterizing the sluice as an active diary of the Chavín . Each new expansion needed a drain, and so the construction changes as they do. He waxed optimistic, too – hoping to connect the canals, and restore the canal to full, raging use. Darwin would approve - the stupid bats´ days are numbered.
Before bed, we badgered Sara and Matt, Dr. Rick’s kids, into screening another movie for us. This time, we put up the classic High Fidelity. It was decent, though I do think Jack Black made the film. Anyway, the real trip was getting so engrossed in home-culture again. I know, I know – day three… but I suddenly wanted french fries. It was two hours of glorious, unaccented English, filled with artists I knew, memes I loved… it was easy. The strange thing was watching the credits roll and coming back to ourselves. The communion broken, each of us realized we weren’t in LA, or Maryland, or Main Street, USA. We were cold, it was night; outside the woolen curtains, Peru slept.
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