(Day 1) Journey to Chavín

(this note, by the by, was posted from a Chavin internet cafe - forgive the lack of adornment)

The morning was slow, a lazy rush to gather last minute sundries. Socks, toothpaste, a poncho - each was stuffed into my mammoth suitcase, a red relic from Marianne’s ancient travel days. I loaded it into the Envoy, and waited, as Bob finished off a phone call and hopped in, Charlie in tow. He gunned it smoothly up the driveway. We were off.

On the way to Dulles, Charlie sat in the back, sullenly, listening to music. Bob and I, on the other hand, had an animated conversation – logical, considering it would be our only one for a couple months. It seems every time I really talk to him I learn something new. This time, he told me about the time he used to run freight for his dad and brother, and had a machine shop. We kept bantering all the way to Dulles, which was swathed in a thick rain.

Checking in, as always, was a bit of a hassle. When the ticketing lady asked where I was connecting through (Mexico City), I told her, and with a prunish frown she told me, as if I should know, that Mexico is carrying an embargo on all American baggage over 50 lbs.. As if that penalizes our economy. So, along with a bickering South African couple, I had the wonderful experience of re-packing in the United line, squeezed against a bollard. Bob and I weighed each item in our hands, thoughtfully, debating whether toothpaste or face wash was heavier, or more useful. In the end, I just transferred 15 lbs. to my backpack, filling it to bursting. Among the emigres: my trowel, heavy duty archaeology bags, and a wicked looking vulcanized tape measure. In the ticketing booth next to ours, Canadian Air, 20 or so cheery-looking souls laughed pleasantly as they checked in and glided about their way.

The United flight was packed, and I squeezed in against the window with a lovely Mexican lady named “Paola.” I popped a small blue sleeping pill under her wary eye, and conked out by the time we’d left the ground.

I awoke suddenly, my neck chinked awkwardly into the tray-table. Night had fallen, and Paola had roused me. “Refresco?” she asked – I nodded. The beverage cart had made it to our end of the airplane, so we both got cranberry juice, and I sipped it as I looked out the window. The sky was velvet black, and we had slipped so far below the clouds that the stars were long gone. Below, Mexico City spread, absurdly large. We flew for twenty minutes before the pilot made any mention of approaching the airport, each minute filled with more and more gasps from the gringos aboard as we found new strangenesses rising out of the dark.

Lakes, black and huge, broke the cityscape, itself only visible as a haze of sodium lights, little candles that picked out houses, cars, and stores. Mountains knuckled darkly from the ancient capital, and slums crawled up their flanks before abandoning the gambit entirely. In every direction, Tenochtitlan stretched, light and dark, to the horizon.

We landed another quarter-hour later, in Benito Juarez International. I’m going to digress for a bit: whomever designed this airport should be taken around back and shot. Granted, it’s a beautiful example of modern architecture, replete with glass, light, and polished marble. But if you’re connecting internationally, you have to proceed through customs, security, and, unless you catch a secret dogleg staircase, you are shunted outside, to walk along the terminal and present yourself again to the airline, to get your ticket. Though I had an hour and a half, I was running low on time. Still, I followed every “salida,” got my “documentacion,” and checked through “el seguridad” again.

The only hitch was in customs (for the second time), when an x-ray revealed my luggage and carry-on had some pretty substantial blunt objects. I tried to explain that I was on an archaeological expedition, but it didn’t work – I was pulled aside and searched, and when I finally remembered the word for archaeologist – arquelogista, or something – I was cross-examined on my shirt. “Y porque llevas algo de Google?” The “Google” part threw me, but they eventually tossed the idea of me as a secret-Google-archaelogical-agent with a penchant for metric tape measures and carbon steel trowels.

The flight to Lima, however, was pure indulgence. The cabin was capacious enough to cartwheel in, and the three rows of seats were decked out in LCD screens, armrest remotes, and pillow / blanket packets. I popped another doxylamine, but stayed awake long enough to eat the meal they distributed for free – a tender steak and russet potatoes on porcelain, followed by flan. I was duly impressed, but fell asleep before I could challenge anyone to a trivia contest on the in-flight system. Just as well – I read slowly in Spanish.

Lima was much more pleasant to land in. I swept through customs and saw my baggage waiting by the belt, hulking and red. I grabbed it, wary of missing our group bus, and did a awkward half-run through the parking lot, dogged by taxi drivers who called “pase, caballero!” (which translates roughly as either, “this way, young man!” or “pass, male horse rider!”). I made it aboard, tiptoeing among the unfamiliar comatose faces that had arrived earlier, stowed my baggage, and made an effort to join everyone else in la-la land.

Just as I’d given up on the attempt, Becca plopped down next to me. Becca! After a quick hug, we exchanged travel horror stories, and gushed about how excited we were. The bus chugged to life, and a few more strangers, the professor among them in blue jeans and flannel, hopped aboard.

The next ten hours were spent in near silence. Now and again, Becca and I would drift in and out of consciousness, often together, and poke out the dusty windows at the towns, people, and mountains that slid past. Schoolchildren, leaving the hills in the early morning; smooth walnut faces in blue blazers. The hills were lush with golden grass, and were dotted with… shacks? Trailers? They seemed to small to support so many, but the kids and their relatives boiled out, clean and bright-eyed.

We continued the long climb into the Andes, accompanied always by the drone of the diesel engine and the crunch of the road. The road ran along a valley, which filled itself with crops, grasses, and palms, cleft only by a distant river, the Huayachecsa. As noon came on, fewer and fewer cars passed us, and the organized terraces of the local farmers gave way to wild grasses that clutched at the slopes. In the distance, the Cordillera Blanca, snow-capped and dark, rose majestically against the azure sky. The river widened across a plain, and as we slipped in and out of sleep the mountains became a blur of sage, gold, tan, and chestnut against the cottonflower blue sky.

The hours before Chavin were even more dramatic. The high Andes shot up past the foothills we were used to, and the wind screamed of the summit, plummeting to the gorges below. Mountain lakes were clutched in nearby crevices, a blue so dark it was black, and the road gave up on crossing ridges – ducking instead through long tomb-like tunnels, lit only by the weak bus lamps. Sleep dragged us back.

The slope changed, and we woke as the descent into Chavin began. The valley below was cultivated again, split into rock-walled terraces and fallow fields. The switchbacks did nothing to negate the slope, which was so sheer as to be near impassable by foot. It was a miracle of skill that our driver negotiated the road and its potholes. Burros, laden with wheat and corn, passed the bus in slow-moving herds, driven by small men with switches. The town itself stood at the end of our valley, at the confluence of two of the highland rivers. We crossed a log bridge into town, and crept along twilight flagstone streets. The long narrow alleys were bordered by brightly painted houses and shops, still visible as dusk found us stepping off the bus in the main plaza at our hostel – the Hostal Inca.

After traveling for 36 hours, we were all less than alert, but it was still early evening. After a quick assortment into rooms, we met for dinner in the main “cocina” of the hostal. An older lady and her husband served a delicious dairy & cheese soup, followed by steak and potatoes. Everyone, bundled against the Andean cold, agreed – it was sabrosa (delicious). A few quick announcements, and we were turned out for some sleep at last. Robert, my new roommate, and I schlepped to our room and sank into our mattresses thankfully, warm under thick alpaca wool blankets. Sleep came quickly, and the only sound that could be heard was that of our breathing, and the idle sad-sounding pickings of some far-off guitarrista.