(Day 11) Bright Lights, Big City

Disclaimer: this note is particularly long; it tracks a long day. It’s still decent stuff, though. Please go on.


In Boy Scouts, you learn a lot. After a good five years, you should be able to pitch a tent, light a fire, and find something edible, mostly without breaking a sweat. There are twelve parts to the Scout Law, three to the Scout Oath, and endless unspoken rules about who does the dishes, carries the trash, and eats first. One lesson that is understood, but never spoken, is too subtle to just tell the incoming guys. That is, to wit: never volunteer.

That’s not to say don’t volunteer matches, or, perhaps, your CPR skills. Rather, don’t offer yourself up for adventure, unless you’re prepared for a story. Strict adherence to this rule will keep a scout from scuba-ing in shark-infested waters, canoeing across foreign countries, and climbing tall mountain ranges. That last one proves particularly troublesome.

It was Monday, maybe Tuesday, when the fateful question was asked. Matt, the son of Dr. Rick, wanted to go for a walk. Clarification: Matt wanted to walk back to Chavín from Huaraz, the local capital, across the Andes, preferably with company. The question at large was a simple one: “Who wants in?”

I probably should have stirred my beefy pasta morosely. I probably should have taken another lukewarm swig of my tea. What I improbably did, however, was quite another matter altogether: I joined three other guys in raising my hand for a death march. After eight or so years of climbing things I shouldn’t, I just hadn’t had enough.

*
Huaráz, the capital of the Ancash state of Peru, is a weekend affair. We are afforded Friday through Sunday to hop a bus, taxi, or burro for the three hour ride to the nearest metropolis. There, you can reasonably expect to find touristy goods, cheaper toilet paper, and a favorable exchange rate. As Friday dawned, in the chilly glow only Chavín can summon, most of our motley crew had their sights set on Huaráz. In particular, five gentlemen, myself included, anticipated the ride ahead; it was to be a preview of our epic hike back.

But first things first: our day started with a bang. From our zen-ish perches in the lithics lab, we heard what sounded like gunshots ring out in the main plaza. Camera in hand, we dashed to the front of the hostal, ready for hill bandits, a zombie insurrection, or the final coming of the Terminator. Instead, we were greeted by a two tranquilized bulls, stumbling from a bluish-white haze.

The two bulls were led on leather thongs by townspeople in full traditional regalia. Each was festooned with bright ribbons and pins and flowers, and staggered fetchingly out of the remains of a dozen-odd firecrackers. Everyone started yelling some sort of chant in Quechua – which must translate roughly as:

“Here are our bulls, which have been very excellently decorated by Maria and Tomás.
Tra-la-la-la.
We have festooned them in celebration of our town’s patron saint.
Tra-la-la-la.
To commemorate her memory, we shall later stab these bulls to death.
Tra-la-la-la.
That should prove fun.
Tra-la-la-la. ”

(the tune of which was particularly fetching)

To compound the madness, a large semi pulled up in front of the plaza, laden with rows and rows of clinking red crates. As the tarp came off the cargo, there was more cheering, which was much more readily translatable, something more to the tune of: “Free Beer!” Apparently, the local government is distributing cases of beer gratis to local businesses, to prepare them for “Festivál,” an aforementioned upcoming week of craziness. As the cases filtered into the town, the furor died down, and the bulls were led away to await a later doom.

Unfazed, we returned to our pebbles. Lemon tea was brewed, Billy Joel was queued, and all was tranquil in the world. We made some good progress on our lithics material, though a few snags presented themselves. Caro, the lovely Ecuadorian, had switched out for Robert, my roommate. This left a Peruvian with a lithics-ignorant American, which is, to use the idiom, “bad news bears.” To solve the issue, we abandoned Ronaldo to his own devices and let Robert learn from the two high-school girls. Obviously, the optimal solution.

Lunch marked the end of our day, as we were heading for Huaráz, so we had a bit of free time in which to amble. Accordingly, I ambled. Let it be said that the following is my favorite memory of Chavín, thus far:

I wanted a dessert. More specifically, I wanted something processed and chocolately. To satisfy my choco-bender, I skipped across the street to the corner store, centimos in hand. Outside, a small girl in a school uniform stood with a pink plastic backpack on, twirling and throwing a small green hoop. As I came closer, she smiled and ran into the shadowy storefront, her backpack bobbing as she went. I ducked inside, mind still on confections, and was shocked to find her standing behind the counter. A quick scan: no adults hiding behind the chips or water. This girl, then, must be running the store for the moment – captain of the cash register at age seven.

I did have one ulterior motive: I had a twenty-sole bill I wanted to break. For Americans, that’s roughly seven dollars, but has the buying power of twenty of our dollars – soles go a long way. Anyway, I pointed out the sweet I wanted: a Peruvian Nabisco creation called “El Choko.” The young girl reached up to the top of the display case, her face creased with the effort. When she slid the cookies across the counter and looked up expectantly, I produced the twenty and winced apologetically: “Solo tengo un viente. ¿Estaría bien?” Her face wrinkled again, this time in calculation as she figured the change. “¿No tienes sencillo?” she asked, to see if I had anything at all smaller. I was about to make my touristy-frown face, prepared to fork over my smaller coins, when she suddenly broke into a broad smile. “No importa,” she said, her head just above the counter. “Luego me da” – or, “it doesn’t matter; just give it to me later.” And with that, she swiveled and bounced off toward the storage room.
I called after her, a silver coin in hand, and paid properly for my cookies. What struck me, though, was the simple trust of the girl. It couldn’t be brushed off as naïveté, which respects no border; it implied an older sort of trust still survived in Chavín. It was, I think, something that used to exist in the corners of America, where people were accountable by more than their credit cards. No conditions, no collateral, no contracts – this girl and her family were accustomed to giving to neighbors with the simple expectation of payment in time. It was, indeed, strange to run headlong into such trust; it made me ache, a bit, for what we lost somewhere.

*

Rosa arranged transport to Huaráz. The only way out of the valley is by bus or taxi, and the buses are just overpriced caravans for pasty Germans with oversize cameras. Cagey locals that we are, we were to take the colectivos, a rather interesting Peruvian version of the taxi.

Technically they don’t exist. If stopped, the driver will swear you are his godson / cousin / obscure relation he is taking to the hospital / the airport et cetera. They are hardly incognito, however. As soon as a cop car slides out of sight, one of the colectivos, always a white station wagon, will slip out of an alley and flash their headlights beckoningly.

The fare is astonishingly cheap – it is around 15 soles ($5 USD) to get to Huaráz, a drive of some sixty miles. They are very reliable, and, unless a cop is nearby, they leave every 15 or so minutes from Chavín. Rosa, having done her fair share of flitting around in her day, secured three of the cars for our weekend exodus. Flinty-eyed men in denim shirts pulled up to the front of the hostal in the trademark white Volvos and invited us aboard. Our driver was named Pepe. At least, I think that’s what he said.

Pepe was the captain of an aging Toyota. While the other two cars followed the colectivo stereotype to the letter, his truck was a ramshackle red pick-up missing too many things to count. The steering column had dropped its case somewhere around mile 300,000 and the stick shift could be traced all the way to the flimsy, chipping floors. The seats rocked with every sway of the brakes, squeaking on worn springs through a pilled, checked fabric. To Pepe, Ronald, Rebecca, Annika, and I were entrusted. With our legs splayed for balance, we smiled and awaited the lurching ride to Huaráz.

I was easily content to curl around my book, Bryson’s Notes on a Small Island, and try to forget that I was too large for my seat. Pepe had other ideas, however. For the entire three-and-a-half hour ride, I was interrogated on nearly every aspect of American life. This wouldn’t have been so bad, usually; I like to talk. Pepe, however, spoke only heavily-accented Spanish.

By hour two, it was clear that Pepe was not really a taxi driver. He was actually an engineer studying in Lima. Apparently, Peru has recently copied its building code verbatim from American law books, and has desperate need of people acquainted with the marvel possibilities of concrete. To this end, a massive drive for construction engineers has swept the nation’s colleges. Pepe helps make ends meet by shuttling people to and fro on the weekend.

There was a sad sort of longing in his voice. You could tell that, more than most things, Pepe really wanted to be one of us; an American at a good school, free to travel and learn. As we fumbled around conversation topics: Peruvian concrete, American obesity, and the subprime mortgage crisis (thank god I knew “hipotecar”) – it was clear that he felt held back. Obviously intelligent, he would respond quickly in Spanish, then, with an awkward smile and glace away from the rain-flecked windshield, try a word in English. “Ree-ver?” he said, as we crossed a bridge closer to Huaráz. I tried to laugh good-naturedly, and confirmed “si,… si lo es.” I felt such a twinge for just existing – for capitalizing on my kith and kin’s good fortune. The feeling has happened since; you just want to apologize for being who you are.

The longest part of the journey was the long floodplain that separates the two halves of the Andes; it is a golden field that stretches in every direction, broken only by the rough asphalt road. As we neared Huaráz, however, mountains broke roughly from the plain, raw and soaring in an impassable circle. As we wended through a pass, we broke upon the city – a small jewel held in the hollow of a dozen peaks. On every side, like an absurd wallpaper, snowcapped crags loomed and whistled in the afternoon sun.

*




What could I say about Huaráz? It is larger than Chavín, certainly – checked with even blocks and orderly storefronts. The gringos who slouch around on its streets are backpackers nine times in ten – often craning upward with dusty packs on their backs. The locals are strongly Incan, and everywhere are the leggings, blankets, boots, and the quaint hats ruffled with subtle ribbons. The place even smells foreign – the air is spiced by street food with names that don’t fit in our mouths: acqchi, tosquata, and chifa. The last is even a type of restaurant here: slang for Chinese / Peruvian food – which, to be honest, just means more rice and less green stuff.

We had settled in at a hostal that came highly recommended by Rosa. The owner, a cheery wide-set lady in an expansive black sweater, hugged each of us as we slipped in wearily. The guys soon set up in a couple of triples, and headed out to gather and rent the gear for our upcoming epic journey. Matt consulted a scrap of paper. Destination: “Andes Camp.”

We noticed it because of the dogs humping outside. Though they were both male, it was a lonely enough corner of town that they seemed to be making do. Our thanks to them, though – their antics brought us across the distant plaza to the backpacking shop, whose sign promised, among other things: “mountain bike logistical support.”

The owner was a clearly Hispanic man who demanded that we call him John. We looked at each other nervously – this man’s mother definitely didn’t know a John, and his slicked-back hair and wide smile did nothing to allay our unease. He pulled backpacks and stoves and sleeping bags and pads near magically from a back cupboard, and rented us the lot for about $15 a day, per person. Satisfied by his word that everything was “good, real good,” we blithely shouldered our new gear and joined the ranks of pale, duped people wandering the streets of Huaráz.

*

When we got back to the hotel, the ladies were itching to eat. We couldn’t have agreed more – it had been over eight hours since the Senora’s excellent cooking. The favorite, it seemed, was La Braza Roja, a spicy sounding joint with a historical bend for rotisserie chicken and unsanitary bathrooms.

La Braza, if you’ve never been (and, by all means, please comment if you have) specializes in serving you more chicken than you thought possible. The menu’s most prominent page is titled simply “Aves” (birds), and offers the casual browser a choice between: ¼ of a chicken, ½ a chicken, and a whole cooked chicken. Because we’re suckers for a gimmick, most of us ordered the Thanksgiving Deal – which is to say, ½ a dead chicken, served over French fries with a salad.

I defected however – I spied a particularly juicy morsel. It was dubbed, appropriately, The Royal. I suppose this was because, historically, only royalty could afford the amount of meat on the lovingly toasted, buttered bun. I confess, I lost myself after it arrived, engrossed in bacon, ham, egg, lettuce, tomato, beef, avocado, peppers, and the light dusting of honey mustard. Such glorious, glorious sin. My only regret is that I took no pictures – I cannot wait to demand that Ricker Dining copy it, inch for delicious inch.

*

This next bit practically writes itself. College kids, overseas, go the city and … go to sleep? I think not. Just down the road from the buxom lady of the black sweater, X-treme Bar (so spelled because of its awesome x-tremity) faced the high peaks of the Huascarán. It was, according to Dr. Rick, a hangout for all sorts of English-speaking, mountaineering, alcholic people. In other words, congenial crazies.

The bar was on the second floor, up a long flight of vomit-yellow concrete steps. Full of half-chickens, we drudged up to the second flight, and squeezed into a broad, populated room with a mahogany bar, couches, and a couple of foosball tables. Though the accents flew thick and fast, it was all discernable as English – the Scottish vowelling to the Canadians, who “eh”-ed the lip-pursing French. No one, however was quite as annoying as the Americans.

I begin to understand why Americans can be the butt of any overseas joke. At the other end of the bar, a middling-age man with a Napoleon complex was challenging anyone within shouting distance to a game of Jenga.

He wasn’t crazy; or at least, not about the Jenga bit. The bar really did have a quadruple-sized Jenga set hulking in the corner. Amy, who by this time had gotten herself decently sozzled, accepted his challenge. Or, at least, she tried – her wave was a bit in the wrong direction.

Anyway, the diminutive man from Connecticut (I know, right… Connecticut?) brayed that Amy needed a partner. Caro had already played the balding man, and was content to nurse her pisco sour classily from a stool. I nipped across to her side, and Napoleon (I don’t know what else to call him) roped a anorexic looking lady from the foosball table.

We took turns pulling blocks from the tower, trying to get the other team to finally collapse the lot. Napoleon had a particular method of removal – not content with simple pulling, he tapped at a side in staccato karate finger-jabs. His wife (she must have been – she was taking it all so well) tried her hand at Judo-Jenga, but failed miserably. With a misplaced slap at the base, London Bridge came falling down, and Napoleon bellowed his disappointment.

Aimee wasn’t the only one who couldn’t walk a line – there was a general sloshiness of the ladies. The men, sober because of their early morning departure for the hills, watched as the girls consistently convinced themselves to dance alone (or, worse, with strangers) and plastered themselves over the couch. Caro, who holds a drink rather impressively, had a nice chat with Aimee and I, though Aimee didn’t participate much – she was having a great time with the couch.

*

The last thing I will say about The X-treme Bar: it has an excellent tradition. The walls are festooned with the signatures and thoughts of a thousand drunkards, armed with Sharpies. Indeed, there is a bar-owned marker you are welcome to steal to leave your mark (should you be able to find a place).

After I tired of watching the bongo drummers, the awkward non-necking of a few group members, and Tara’s perennial giggle, I asked the barkeep for a marker. He cast around for something, and ended up digging in his pockets. He turned away at yell from down the bar, but before he went to fill the order, he tossed me something small and green. A lipstick.

Amused, I set off for the wall by Caro. There was no space – it was nearly filled with things like “NOR-CAL” and “Don’t Piss where you Drink.” I settled for virgin territory – no had ventured onto the window over the couch.

As far as I know, if you visit the X-treme Bar today, you will find a small note from Rob Ryan in lipstick on the window over the bar couch. It reads, simply:

“Here’s hoping that, someday, this will be worth a chunk.”
- Rob Ryan