Huaraz Adios

It is time to say farewell to Huaraz. I have the night bus to Trujillo tonight.

I have grown to like the town, although it has a comparable charisma to Schiedam, (but then with better views). But it was good to relax for a while in Hotel Churup, do the treks, and start my journey into the world of the Spanish language (thank you, Ethel, the marvelous teacher, who is so fond of dropjes).

I enjoyed the company of the other travellers I have met: Martijn, Rachel, Marieke... Ranid the Ozzy frog ;-) and of course Ariane, the Alp maiden.

My aim is north now.

Enjoy these impressions of Huaraz ...

Huayhuash - Impressions

Huayhuash

There is a magic word around here in these parts ... Huayhuash ... it is spoken only in the softest of whispers, for it is a word of great power and even greater danger. And so it was on an afternoon in the bus back from Chavín that the seeds were sown of of what was surely to be one of Señor Hans´ most impressive adventures: the Huayhuash Trekking.

Now the altidude problems of the pass at the Santa Cruz trek were still fresh in my mind, and the Huayhuash trek had seven of these near 5000m passes. Furthermore, it measured roughly 100km of climbing and decending mostly at over 4000m altitude, to be done in eight days (where, we found out later, ten days is the norm). In the Great Galactic Guide of Treks, it is rated as ´difficult´ ... (in comparison, the ascend of the 12km Olympus Mons on Mars is rated ´quite nice for a Sunday afternoon´).

However, all this means nothing when it is someone like Ariane (aka Frau Oesch) who does the sowing of seeds and convincing of hapless travellers. So, accompanied by Pablo the guide/donkeydriver/cook and three of his smartest donkeys, we set off for the mountains.

The first day was mostly bus travel, butt hardening and a brisk but relaxing walk to our first camp up to the 4km altitude mark. The routine would become that Pablo would run away ahead of us with his furry friends and set up camp before we would arrive later in the day, having lost the track an average of 163 times on the way (taking about 11 wrong passes in the process).

On day 2 the fun started: two passes at around 4800 meters. To my utter delight I found out that acclimatising in Huaraz at 3km for more than two weeks actually helps, and I had no trace of any altidude problems. The ascend was steep though and it took considerable effort to see the morning sun reveal the deep valleys on both sides of pass. And here we we would have the first of our Swiss truffle chocolate, a ritual reserved for every one of the high passes.
The weather worsened in the afternoon, but the second pass was more gradual, and it was only hail and knee-deep mud that stood in our way. We arrived at the camp site at the Lago Carhuacocha in the clouds, with a stunning misty backdrop of 6km+ snowy mountains of the Cordillera Huayhash.

I was reminded of the Scottish Highlands when doing the pass on the third day, which prompted me to start singing the more entertaining bits of Queen´s Highlander soundtrack, much to the delight of my energetic Swiss companion. It was only afterwards I found out that she laughed so loudly, because she thought I was singing ¨Princess of the Universe¨ in stead of the ¨Princes of the Universe¨ that everybody knows ...
The pass itself had more of a Swiss note to it, and Ariane gladly tested the echoes with an impressive jodl-performance. The mood was good, the legs held out fine, the air - although a bit short on oxygen - was fresh and the vistas became more and more impressive. Our campsite was at the ´village´ of Huayhuash (population 5) in a stunning valley under the watchful eyes of the white giants.

The next day brought a fortunate change in the weather. A clear sky greeted us in the morning, after a cold cold night (below freezing). This clear weather would last, and more cold(er) nights would come, which neither of Ariane´s and my strategies could really beat. (´23 layers of clothing´ and ´just ignore that stupid cold´, respectively).
The low sun in the valley was no less than stunning. Our energy was at a peak and within no time we were enjoying a sunny hour of relaxation (in addition to a piece of Swiss chocolate) at the Portachuello pass. The afternoon, however, brought bitter disappointment, as the ´hot springs´ did more than honour their description, and we didn´t want to be burnt alive.

In the meantime we had come upon two other groups, one mostly Australian and one Israeli, but a to our own surprise we were clearly the fittest of all. Ariane and I were well matched, me being a bit stronger going up and she being more nimble going down. We went from strength to strength when taking the highest point of the trek, the Punta Cuyoc at 5000m. Being within touching distance of the glacier of the Cuyoc in combination with the breathtaking views made this the most memorable point of the trek. The descent presented a series of lush green valleys, one after another, and we felt like we were wandering through Middle-Earth.

Then the hammer hit... The hellish sixth day was more than just hot and long. It was body-wrecking. An endless descent filled me with more and more dread. We both didn´t feel at our best and we knew we had to go all that way up again as well. We were already beaten by the slippery sandy and rocky paths before the long climb. There was only one thing to do: go for it and suffer. And suffer we did. Almost 4 hours of relentless climbing brought me to the pass, or so it seemed. In true Tolkien-sense we had already shared the last Dextro Energy before the top. But the agony had just started. Every ´pass´ revealed a higher point previously out of sight, and all those false passes dented our morale to breaking point.
But the real pass was sure to come. And surely it did come. My cry of triumph gave Ariane the strength for the last stretch and soon we were sitting down, eating the finest and most-deserved chocolate in the history of mankind.

Our reward would come at the end of day 7, with the most stunning of all campsites. The day trek itself was short, which gave us some much needed relaxation time. And while we marveled at our disbelief of so much natural beauty, our faithful guide was catching fresh trout for the evening meal. The last night was the coldest, but no mere cold could counter the feeling of accomplishment and freedom this trip had brought us.

Day 8 completed the trek around the mountain range. It was during another painful descent that our starting town of Llamac came into view again, and all pain left our bodies. We made it.

Our bodies were battered and bruised, but our minds were clearer and stronger than ever before. We could hear the word ´Huayhuash´ whispering in the wind ...

Chavin de Huantar - Ruinas y Cabras

After a few days of rest and Spanish lessons, it was time again for a bold trip. And I had met just the characters to take it with: Ranid, the Ozzy (´Australian´ for the ones not in the know) bush guide named after a frog, and the lovely and very Swiss Ariane, school teacher and improvisation actress. You can imagine that that a day with the three of us could hardly be uneventful.

We took the 9.30 bus to Chavín de Huantar (which left around 11) and had a jolly nice ride through valleys, mountains and a mine (which they claimed was a tunnel). Ranid was lost in his Australian folk music while Ariane and I discussed the entirety of Greek Mythology in our 20 word spanish vocabulary.

The sun was shining as we entered the little village of Chavín, where we were kicked off the bus. The edge of the village was the site of the aptly named Chavín culture, which flourished around 500 BC in the highlands of the Cordillera Blanca. They were renowned for their pottery, metalwork, textiles and building prowess and exterted a significant cultural influence over the northern highlands of Peru ... (you still there ?) ... the site was not very big, but impressive enough. I always feel a kind of awe in places like this and it was awe that I felt here. There was a ´sunken plaza´ and a significant building with mazelike hallways which we could enter to wander and play around in.



But the real adventure was the return trip. As the bad kids on a school trip (and that was how we felt), we took possession of the back bench of the bus. Ranid performed the amazing feat of finishing a take away bowl of ceviche on the back bench during a section of road where the average location of the back of the bus was 2 meters above the road. Ariane filled the time practising the singing of her ´aaaaaaaaas´ on the bumpy road. I had to be the responsible again of course, performing useful but disappointing experiments in the same conditions with a nice and shiny bottle of Inka Cola.

We had some delays at the mine. Apparently their digging for the fountain of youth was not to be disturbed by passing vehicles, but soon enough we were on our way again. Not long after, the bus stopped. Some people wanted to get on. Some people and their baggage, a lively collection of sheep, goats and pigs, about 15 in total. So the top of the bus was appointed the cattle section. The only problem was getting the animals there. (Understatement follows) they did not want to come ...
An entertainign chase scene developed. Stout men being outwitted by the pigs and sheep they were trying to grab. Pigs squealing as if they were being taken to the slaughter (which might be pretty near to the truth).

It took a while but they got all of them and one by one hauled them onto the bus where they were tied down ... all but one. One clever and brave little cabra (goat) managed to run down a ravine and up a cliff, out of reach from its persuers. Being worth about 12 euros, the brave men decided not to give it up and as they went into ´dead or alive´ mode. They threw rocks and boulders from the top of the ridge, but to no avail. The goat had won its freedom, celebrated by a silent cheer from the three gringos in the back of the bus.

The rest of the trip was rather uneventful. While Ariane slept, Ranid and I gossiped heaps about her as it fits gentlemen. And then there was the little incident with the goat that died on the way, bleeding the side windows of the bus red in gushes. But we made it home in one piece, returning to Huaraz in the dark evening.

It was a Fullon! day.

Trekking through Paradise - Impressions

Trekking through Paradise - Santa Cruz Days 3 & 4

Trying to get to sleep with a pounding headache, altitude dizziness and a broken heart doesn´t happen every day. Neither does going to bed surrounded by at least five snow-covered mountain peaks. In the morning, nature had conquered all. All the pain was gone and I had recorded the highest crap ever by someone being me.

The morning was magical. Freezing cold at 4200 meters, a clear blue sky betrayed the coming of the sun in the still shady valley. And when it came ...
I wanted to stay here forever, but more goodies were waiting for us. And most of it downhill ! After packing up everything, we went to have a closer look at The Mountain. The Alpamayo was engaged in his daily wrestling with the clouds, but that didn´t diminish his majesty. It is said that his other side is even more impressive, but that would be for another time. The Santa Cruz valley lay open for us.

Wide open valleys, brooks and waterfalls, tantalising lakes, all under the watchful eye of the white giants in the clear sun. We were overwhelmed by it all. The grazing horses and cows seem to be used to it. It was hard to believe you could.
The going was easy, not to steep and not to fast. My pace was not that impressive anyway, wanting to follow the river in stead of the path and being forced to jump over or wade through all the little side streams because of it.

Our fearless guide had told us the last camp would be at a waterfall, but when it came in sight, I could not see it right away. It was hidden in a little glen bordered by massive boulders and straight at the roaring water. The pertual smiles on our faces were stretched just that extra bit again. Although the noise of the water was almost deafening, I slept like the boulders around us.
The morning awoke me again in a shady valley, with the sun itching to appear from behind the towering cliffs. In the morning the place was better still and, sitting on a rock in the middle of the stream, I concluded that life can be pretty darn good.

The morning ahead promised the last of our journey. The valley was hot and more vegetation appeared the lower we got. The roaring river became even more spectacular. Alas, even at this altitude, it was still too cold to swim.
What was not too cold however, where the hot springs just outside the valley. A nice and hot sulphury bath was all we could wished for, although for some it took more effort than expected to get that hot water running ...

My friends, I have seen paradise and I saw that it was good !!!

Betrayal in the Andes - Impressions

Betrayal in the Andes - Santa Cruz Days 1 & 2

The day had arrived. The Cordillera Blanca was to be conquered at last. Hastily but carefully, a team was assembled. Yours truly was to be accompanied by two lovely ladies of both the Dutch and American variety, and one silent local guide carrying the Ancient White Mask of Death. The target was the dreaded ´Santa Cruz´ trek, weaving through the Andes along the 6km+ giants of the Cordillera.

A local smelly bus, carrying more chicken than people, brought us to the start of the ordeal, where our donkey driver and two of his strongest stock were waiting to complement the party. But there was another ... small, brown, smart, spaniel-like and with a uncanny talent for begging, no adventuring troupe could be complete without its very own loyal doggy. And so it was done. Eight strong, the party decended into the valley.

The initial parts of the trek were not much of a challenge. Some heavy rain made a weak attempt, but our rain coats (and Marieke´s horrible light blue poncho) did their jobs. We walked along some small houses, greeting the local children who had come out to cheer us on in exchange for caramelos. Already it became apparent that our dog was set to be an invaluable companion. No matter how docile the beasties we encountered, he was afraid of them. This, together with his insatiable appetite, earned him the nickname of Scooby Doo.

As the slushing mud was starting to annoy us, our eyes were treated to a magnificent spectacle (and not to be our last). The sun broke through the clouds, and a lush green valley opened up in front of us, ending in the far distant with a majestic snow-capped mountain peak. This was to be our first camp site, next to the ever present babbling brook.

However, strange things were afoot in this place of beauty. A local dim-witted shepherd boy inhabited the valley and he had his eyes set on our Rachel, the American maiden (I am happy to report that dowry negotiations are in an advanced stage at the moment). His main talent seemed to be to be able to stand still for long periods of time, looking at a specific target (mostly Rachel), regardless of any activity.

At the same time, our Scoob was unusually active and bright, bringing forth an unbelievable arsenal of begging and acting tricks, earning him a multitude of Scooby snacks. My theory is that we had a rare case of a ´sheperd-doggy mind-switch´ on our hands (comparable with the case of George W Bush and his ´Spot´).
However, these events did not deter us from our mission. After a hearty meal, our tent was our shelter for the night. Scooby Doo joined us. The unlucky shepherd boy did not.

~

The second day started off fine. The sun was still shining, but we soon found out that that was another effect of the magical valley. The moment we set foot outside, dark clouds gathered above. As the path went up, a slight drizzle started to descend. Drizzle turned into rain showers and as the temperature dropped, a hail storm introduced itself. The snowy peaks had all but disappeared into a cold and misty haze.

Javier, our guide, decided it was time to point out the pass in the distance. I was sure he was kidding us, but his icy stare relieved me of that hope. High up in the white mountains his gaze was set. All but obscured by the mist was our destination: the Punta Union pass.

As we ploughed on, the altitude had started to affect me as well. Wishing no chemical enhancements, I had decided to tackle the pass au naturelle (pills no, clothes yes). It felt now like there was a little fiendish fellow carrying a large hammer in my head protesting this decision with abundant energy. Short stops only made things worse. Starting again after a rest, I was overwhelmed by gulfs of dizzyness. Our brown little four-legged friend was another story however. Running around chasing birds all day, he seemed to be living off the energy I was so painfully lacking.

The snow came. The pass was now in sight, lying low against the huge peak of Tauliraju. The sight was breathtaking. Behind us, the wet valley stretched out for as far as the eye could see. We had already came a long way. But we had unexpected assistance ! The appearing sun renewed our vigor. The snow clouds moved away and the pass openened up. Step by step, higher and higher, and finally, at 4750 meters high, we crossed the Spine of the Andes into the valley of the Holy Cross.

We still had 500 meters to descend, but where was our loyal Scoob ? He had still been with us at the pass, but he was nowhere to be found. And we had to leave. Bad weather was on its way. Slowfully and painfully we came upon our second campsite, the amazing valley of the white peaks. And there he was ... the traitor! He had found refuge at another group, the lure of more food easily overcoming his fragile loyalty.

In that cold evening, drunk on the sensations of a memorable accomplishment and already severely hurt by nature´s punishments, a little doggy broke my heart ...

[to be continued]