25 - Mission Inca-Kola (Chachapoyas)

Chiclayo to Chachapoyas, PERU - 03 march 2003

I headed to Pimental, the coastal town near Chiclayo. There was a very long wooden jetty that cut across the beach and stretched way into the ocean. It provided good shade and I rested under it for a while, studying all the happy Peruvian families out to enjoy the sun, the sea and the sand.

I did not bring my swim-wear. I was catching the night-bus out and had checked out of my hotel. I did not fancy sleeping on the bus with a sticky body. I had forgotten public bathrooms might exist for me to shower. So, later when I felt like some sun, I lay fully-clothed on the sand. Unlike in Brazil, no one stared at me.

Later, I crossed the beach and walked towards a hive of activity. Upon nearing it, I realised the same sort of totora-reed caballitos were parked all over the beach and there was a fish sale going on. The fish were laid out on the reed-boats. The crabs were squirming inside the hollowed-out ends. Locals were everywhere, buying the fish, washing the fish, gutting the fish. There were shouts here and there. Sea-gulls dived down to make a grab for the discarded guts. It had such a wonderful energy here.

Food in Peru offered a lot more varieties than in Chile and Argentina. Cerviche was raw fish or seafood, served in lime, onions and chilli. On my last trip, I had been surprised by it for I had had no idea what it was before ordering. This time, I relished it.

I grabbed the night-bus to Chachapoyas that evening. The first 5 hours or so were on rather smooth roads but the latter 5, from 12 midnight onwards, were on terribly bumpy roads. It was impossible to sleep.



Chachapoyas, PERU - 04 march 2003

It was 5am or so when I lumbered into town. I blindly followed a hostel tout to his hostel. Argh, I was issued a prison-cell with no ventilation. There was a musty smell. It was awful. But it was now raining and I had already paid up so I decided to sleep for a while and hunt for another one later.

Usually after night-buses, I would have some difficulty peeling myself off the bed before 12 noon but I was up and about by 10am, swearing I would not enter my room until bed-time tonight.

It was raining and raining in Chachapoyas and all the streets transformed themselves into rivers. I waded to another hotel nearby and had the presence of mind to inspect the room first. It was perfect. Yes, I would change to this one tomorrow.

I usually could not be bothered to change my hotel, even if I found the mattress too hard, too soft or had killed two cockroaches already (but the third one got away, darn!). I usually would have made friends with the receptionist, the man with the mop at the lobby, the guy manning the counter at the adjoining bar, whatever, and it would be like a betrayal to them to abandon them for someone else.

But, well, some people ascertain the prices, the quality of the bed-sheets, the colour of the carpet of the hotel… they are, as we know, the Famas… but I go for the smell of the room.

The receptionist of this hotel tried to hook me up with a few other tourists for a shared taxi to Karajia tomorrow. I told her I would think about it.

I spent the rest of the afternoon, gathering information from the tourist office and various combi (van) providers to try and find out how I could reach the various sights around Chachapoyas.

In Trujillo and Chiclayo, the sights were also around and NOT IN these towns, but they were merely 10 to 30 minutes away on colectivos. But, the sights in Chachapoyas were 2½ hours to 3½ hours one-way on very harsh road conditions. It was quite difficult to go on public transportations. In the end, I agreed to the Karajia trip in shared taxi with the two other tourists, just to make my life less complicated.

Later that evening, there was a crowd gathered at a road junction where two trees of the type ‘yunsa’ or ‘umisha’ had been moved there. On these two tall trees, the locals had hung clothes, toys and balloons. This was part of the celebration for the end of Carnaval. Passing this spot earlier today, I had been attacked by a water-balloon. Now, amongst the crowd, one could see flying water-balloons everywhere, some even hitting poor, little old wrinkled ladies.

OK, it had been raining. We were wet anyway. Water-ballons just contained water. But, the nastier ones were smearing other people with black motor-oil and coloured paints that appeared to be impossible to remove. This did not appeal to me, not when I was living out of a backpack. I kept watching my back for possible attackers.

A group of people around the trees took turns to chop the trees down. When the first one fell, people pounced forward to grab the clothes and toys. The second one fell after a while, this time amidst an even crazier mob with flying flour and bursting water-balloons.

Hey, readers, Carnaval in Chachapoyas, Amazonas Province, Peru is strictly NOT to be confused with Carnaval in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. There are no jiggly breasts here. Repeat: there are no jiggly breasts here. Do not show up with your sequined and translucent costume and that feathery thing on your head.

I later learnt that the one who managed the last chop that fell the tree would be the boss for next year’s Carnaval, paying for party, food and drinks.

A parade went around the square later with a coffin and an effigy on it, representing Carnavalon or ‘Mr Carnaval’. After a long but apparently funny speech in front of the Municipal, made by Mr Carnaval (to much puzzlement amongst the toddlers who veered near to check out where the voice could possibly come from), they set fire to the coffin and Mr Carnaval. Well, until next year, Mr Carnaval.



Chachapoyas, PERU - 05 march 2003

The other two tourists sharing the taxi to Karajia were Femke from The Netherlands and Glenn from Australia. They had previously engaged Edwin, the taxi-driver, to Kuelap two days ago. And apparently, Edwin was now ‘in love’ with Femke.

Poor Femke, she was just into her first week in Peru when she had her bag and camera stolen in a café in Trujillo. I had thought Trujillo was safe but one really had to be careful everywhere. Glenn mentioned that he had been to Latin America (including Mexico and Central America) six times and had been robbed eight times. Hmm… when you are able to hold conversations, saying, “And… my eighth robbery happened in…” you are SURELY NOT doing so well in the department of travelling. Still, he persevered. You go, Glenn.

The drive to Karajia was about 2½ hours, through very windy, treacherous mountainous road. The road was sometimes just wide enough for one vehicle. One had to be careful to avoid a head-on collision as there were numerous blind and very sharp bends. Whenever another vehicle in the opposite direction was spotted, the one closer to a ‘spare’ area would stop and let the other pass. The road was also full of pot-holes and with the rain, utterly muddy and wet. It was very terrible and dangerous road conditions.

During the ride, I asked Edwin if it would be safe to go to Kuelap by myself tomorrow, on public colectivo and then trek to a tiny town, Tingo, for 3 hours, as suggested by the tourist office.

He did not find it wise to do this alone but agreed that there were no robbers in Chachapoyas, only robbers of your heart, turning to glance at Femke. “Oh, mi corazon roto…” [Oh, my broken heart]

Edwin really resembled the amorous Pepe Le Pew, of Warner Brothers cartoon.

We finally arrived at a tiny town Cochane and I tumbled out of the taxi in relief. My lower back was very sore from all the bumps we had gone through. This was the furthest we could go by car. The rest would be on foot to Karajia. Edwin Le Pew would go with us and he offered to carry ‘mi amor Femke’ [my love Femke] on his back.

Three smiley old men sitting in front of an adobe house assured us Karajia was very near. Sure, with their evolved campo (country) feet and iron-lungs, it would be near to them.

We descended and climbed up undulating hills for the next 2½ hours, squelching in the terrible mud, balancing ourselves on slippery rocks. There were green farm-lands everywhere, amidst the clouds. It looked really peaceful. We passed by even tinier villages. Oh, it was so great. There were many locals dressed in their traditional ponchos, riding donkeys, spinning yarns, whatever… They were rather reserved however. They were not so smiley, unlike the old men in Cochane. But there would be the few who would greet us and some bolder children would smile and wave.

We stopped by a church which was having a mass for Ash Wednesday, which was today. Children came running out to check us out. Some had an ash-cross drawn on their foreheads. Peruvian children were really beautiful.

After a lot of huffing and puffing, with me and Edwin Le Pew, surprisingly, way WAY ahead of Glenn and Femke, we arrived at Karajia.

Karajia is the place where several sarcophagi from the Chachapoyas culture (which was in the north-eastern region of Peru in the mountains, before the Incas culture) were found standing on the side of the cliff. Just twenty years ago, there had been rows and rows of these sarcophagi. But now, only a set of three and another of six were left. The rest had been plundered and destroyed.

The sarcophagi were made of cane for the outer structure and mud to mould it into the shape of a man with a head. Some of them were painted with red, white and ochre colours. Inside the cane structure were mummies, laid in foetal position and wrapped in bamboo or cloth. The natural roof of the cliff had protected them from rain all these years. The Chachapoyas selected this inaccessible cliff to preserve the peace of the dead, until, of course, it was discovered by ‘modern men’.

I had seen these sarcophagi in a magazine once and I had read that it was very difficult to reach. Indeed, it was a supreme honour for me to be here at last and have a glimpse of these unmeasurable treasures, these remaining Chachapoyas sarcophagi.



Chachapoyas, PERU - 06 march 2003

Last night, my receptionist and Edwin Le Pew had scurried around town to help me find more tourists to share his taxi to Kuelap today. But they were unsuccessful.

I was walking along the market in the morning when I heard, “Kuelap! Kuelap!”. I made inquiries and a guy driving a combi, was taking three tourists to Kuelap today and they would be leaving in half an hour’s time. Price was also much cheaper than a taxi. Just perfect. Things always have a way of falling into place for me.

Soon, we were off, on more bumpy, windy, muddy roads to Kuelap… a whopping 3½ hours away. My spine was badly rattled, my lower back bruised. We passed by many little villages, some I would even hesitate to call them villages. For example, at a very sharp hair-pin turn, there were perhaps three or four houses on the outer curve and two houses on the INNER curve of the hair-pin turn. Imagine that!

Many of the villages had houses made from mud. A good number of them were painted with election campaigns from the past. ‘FUJIMORI PRESIDENTE’ was spotted. There were many pictorial representation of the parties’ logos painted three times and marked with an ‘X’ across to try and educate the campesinos [country-folks] which to select. One political logo apparently had the side profile of a rooster! Pictorial representations were essential, I supposed, due to the lack of literacy in this region.

Kuelap is at 3000m. The other tourists, three Colombians, had stopped to buy coca leaves. I felt fine then. But, during the 20-minute climb up to Kuelap, I felt rather out-of-breath.

I engaged a guide and he was also excellent in explaining everything to me, very slowly and clearly. Kuelap was a fortress built by the Chachapoyans and later, it was briefly conquered and used by the Incas. The 420 houses in this fortress were mainly round, stone huts with conical straw roofs (the straw-roofs were no longer existing, of course). A few rectangular houses were attributed to the Incas. There was a burial site and a ‘hospital’ where skulls had been found with holes cut out, a form of ancient brain surgery, performed in Central and South America by several cultures, including the Mayans in Central America, the Paracas and Nazca in southern Peru. He showed me various adornments that represented the eyes of jaguar, puma, serpent and condor, the four animals worshipped by the Chachapoyas. There were some astrological and calendar structures too. It was very interesting and thoroughly worth the bumpy ride here.

That evening, I decided to try the other typical dish of Peru - the cuy or guinea pig. Three years ago, I did not get the chance to try it, feeling that it was too expensive. But this was my second time in Peru… what were the odds there might be a third time soon?

Glenn had been grossed out the other day when I told him I would be ordering a cuy one of these days. “ARRRGH… it’s so small, full of bones. It looks so gross… it’s like eating a rat!”

OK, he got me. Unlike him, I had never eaten a rat before. And so I ordered one tonight and took a picture of it before wrecking its tiny little bones as I devoured it. It was suprisingly meatier than I thought. The taste was not too bad but the skin, although deep-fried, remained very tough and after chewing it for a long time unsuccessfully, I had to spit it out. I then felt a tad grossed-out when I examined the chewed skin closely later.



Chachapoyas to Lemeybamba, PERU - 07 march 2003

Lemeybamba had a museum that contained the wonderful finds from another site down south of Chachapoyas, the Laguna de los Condores. It was also from the Chachapoya culture, but of a different region, compared to Karajia.

Again, Lemeybamba was not merely 30 minutes away. It was 3 hours away. I bought a bus-ticket out of Chachapoyas tonight, leaving at 8pm for Trujillo with the intention to change to another bus to Cajamarca upon arrival at Trujillo.

I thought I could catch a early shared taxi to Lemeybamba, visit the museum, catch another shared taxi back to Chachapoyas, in time for my night bus.

We needed four to go on the shared taxi. But I waited for more than 1 hour and still, no one showed up. People in the campo had time. On the shared taxi, it was 12 Soles. On the combi, 8 Soles. They would rather take the combi.

Jorge, a guy who passed by the shared-taxi stop, stopped to chat with me. He insisted that even if I found a ride to Lemeybamba earlier than the combi, it would be impossible to find enough people to return to Chachapoyas later. “¿En serio? [Really?]” I asked, in doubt. Immediately, he proffered his hand and said, “Soy de Lemeybamba. Soy policia. [I am from Lemeybamba. I am a police.]”

A little too suave. A little too packaged. I asked the taxi-driver. If he could not find four to return to Chachapoyas this afternoon, would he spend the night in Lemeybamba? Or would he finally ‘give up’ and drive back here? He said he would stay the night in Lemeybamba.

OK, indeed I did not feel secure about being able to return in time for my bus tonight. I decided to change my bus-ticket to Trujillo to leave tomorrow.

I would take the combi instead. The problems with the combis were that they leave rather late from Chachapoyas, noon and later. And the next morning, they left Lemeybamba really early, like 3am to 5am.

Jorge followed me to pick up my backpack and he suggested the 1pm combi, as he was returning to Lemeybamba too.

There was a 12 noon combi which would place me in Lemeybamba at 3pm, which would give me about 1½ hours to visit the museum before it closed. The 1pm combi would be too late. But he was insistent. I told him he was free to take the other one. I signed up for the noon combi, meaning to ignore him. He then decided to take the same one with me. He wanted to hang around with me until noon too but I told him I would rather be alone. Somehow, I did not trust him.

Naturally, by 12:30pm, the driver and the assistant were still struggling to pack the baggages at the top of the combi. Campesinos do not travel light. If they travel, sacks of potatoes, fruits, sand-bags, gigantic bags of clothes for sale, the occasional live-stock and that wheel-barrow go along too.

By 12:45pm, I started to regret my decision. I felt a very negative feeling around me. Was it really worth the trouble to travel 3 hours just to see a museum for barely 1 hour?

By 1pm, they finally got that wheel-barrow secure and we left Chachapoyas. I tried to evoke the Zen in me to remain in peace, for there was no use getting impatient and trying to force the situation. Whatever will be, will be… Qué sera, sera. Then, the driver popped in his cumbia cassette and ‘ping!’, Zen vapourised.

We pulled in at Lemeybamba at 4:30pm. Jorge told me his aunt worked at the museum, he would go with me to explain to her to open it up a little longer for me. Darn, we needed to take another taxi to reach the museum which was way, way off the village too.

Indeed, Jorge’s aunt was the sweet, matronly sort and she was very kind and patient and explained the museum very clearly and thoroughly for me and some late-comers.

While the Chachapoyas up north, for example, from Karajia buried their dead individually in sarcophagi, the ones from Laguna de los Condores buried them in groups of ‘houses’ built on the side of cliffs.

In this museum, were 219 mummies, some still wrapped up in their original material, some with the picture of a face (rather cartoonish) painted on them.

It was a fantastic museum. I learnt a lot from her, even about those mummies in Karajia. Edwin Le Pew was a driver, not a guide after all. While I was in a foul mood upon arrival in Lemeybamba, walking around the beautiful museum with the wonderful guide put me at peace once again.

On the way down, the taxi-driver packed the other late-comers, two ladies and two children, Jorge’s aunt, Jorge and I, into his taxi and we returned to Lemeybamba.

I saw Jorge’s aunt give him 1 Sol and the driver smiled, “Suficiente. [Sufficient]” Plus whatever the other two ladies had given him and my 1 Sol, I reckoned it would make up the right price, if not more. But when I got off, he wanted 3 Soles.

I: “¿Por que? [Why?]”
Driver: “Porque xxxxxxxxx [Because xxxxxxxxx]”
I: “¿POR QUE?”
D: “Porque xxxxxxxxx”
I: “¿POR QUE?? Somos muchos. (WHY?? We were many.] ”
D: “Porque xxxxxxxxx”
I: “¿POR QUE?? ¡SOMOS MUCHOS!”

I did not look but I was sure the bored aunties, the deaf old men and the shrunken grannies sitting along the streets must have all turned to stare at us.

D: “OK, OK… 2 Soles.”

I was mad. I hated it when they wanted more from foreigners. It was the principle behind it. I slammed 2 Soles in his palm and walked off. By the time I got to the other side, he had handed 1 Sol back to Jorge to return to me.

Sorry, I was sssooo NOT Miss Congeniality today. Might be the cumbia talking.

That evening, another guy from the combi, Manuel, started chatting with me at the plaza. From the questions he was asking, I sort of knew where it was heading. So, when it came to “How can someone as beautiful as you still be single… Oh, when you leave tomorrow, I will feel very sad… You don’t believe me?? Why don’t you believe me??”, I knew it was time to roll my eye balls, shut down, pack up and leave. Bye, Manuel.

Gosh, do such guys really think this sort of crap would work? Have they ever worked? Gimme a break. I liked to talk to locals and learn more about their cultures and stuff but I could not stand this sort of talk.

Me? Beautiful? When I find myself a facial and unclog my pores of 10½ months’ worth of grime, then I show you beautiful!

FOUL MOOD: DO NOT CROSS



Lemeybamba to Lima, PERU - 08 march 2003

The combi back to Chachapoyas was rumoured to leave at 3am, 4am and finally, a guy who seemed to know what he was talking about, confirmed it would leave at 5am. He would come round to the hotel and blast his horn.

You know how it is like when you know that you have to get up at an ungodly hour and you really need to sleep as much as possible now, but because you are waiting for that ungodly hour to come, you cannot sleep properly?

So, when someone from the hospedaje said, “Habitación 8”, I stirred and woke up at once. That was my room.

Someone knocked on the door and said he was Jorge and that it was time to go. It was 3:30am. Now?? I was puzzled. For a moment, I thought maybe the combi was leaving earlier. I thanked him and started to pack my backpack.

There was a window with frosted glass next to the door. I saw Jorge trying to peer in. He also tried the door-knob a few times.

I: “Un momentito. Estoy haciendo la maleta. [In a minute. I am packing my bag.]”

Jorge continued to jiggle the door-knob.

I: “¡Por favor! ¡Un momento! [Please! In a minute!]”

He stopped but pressed his face to the window. I did not like him waiting outside and looking in. I opened the door to tell him to knock it off, give me a minute.

The smell of alcohol hit me like a boxing glove and I slammed the door and locked it even before I knew what I was doing. I saw his hands reach for the door. So, he had the intention to push his way in but was not fast enough.

Shit!!! Shit!! SHIT!!! S-H-I-T!!!!!

I then realised… he was FROM Lemeybamba. Why was he the one waking me up to tell me about the combi? Yesterday, he did not indicate that he was going back to Chachapoyas today. Also, NOBODY would arrive so late in Lemeybamba yesterday and then, immediately take the early-morning bus out of Lemeybamba today. NOBODY except me.

I: “No me esperes, por favor. ¿Por que me esperas? [Don’t wait for me, please. Why are you waiting for me?]”
J: “Voy contigo. [I go with you.]”
I: “¿Por que?? ¿Por que vas conmigo? No, por favor. ¡No me esperes! [Why?? Why are you going with me? No, please. Don't wait for me.]”
J: “…”
I (at the top of my voice): “¡SAL!!!!! [L-E-A-V-E!!!!!]”

He finally slithered away.

The señora from the hospedaje then came knocking at my door furtively. She informed me the combi was still leaving at 5am. Then, why did Jorge wake me up now?

Señora: “Quiere ir contigo en un taxi. [He wanted to go with you in taxi.]”
I: “¡Por favor!!! ¡Está loco!! ¡Mucho alcohol!!! [Please!!! He is crazy!! So much alcohol!!!]”
S: “Sí… sí… [Yes… yes…]”
I: “¡Señora, por favor… protegeme por favor! Gracias. [Madam, please… protect me please! Thank you.]”
S: “Sí… sí…”

The señora also needed her neck wrung. How could she let a man who showed up at 3:30am, reeking of alcohol, into the hospedaje and tell him my room number? She herself knew I was taking the combi at 5am.

I was really mad.

Later, on the ride back to Chachapoyas, I suddenly made up my mind to leave Peru. I did not think this morning’s incident was the main reason. Although nothing happened, it frightened me a little, thinking of what could have happened. But, for a few days now in Chachapoyas, when I mentally decided to include a short visit to Cajamarca, I had felt uncomfortable. Something felt wrong. My instinct seemed to be telling me, “It’s time to leave Peru. You have been lucky so far. Do not prolong it.”

I wanted to see as much of Peru as possible. So, I had tried to ignore the odd feeling. But now, I told myself to listen to it. My gut feelings had, after all, been right about Jorge.

Instinct, sixth-sense… call it what you want. I want to learn to recognise it and follow it. For I do not want something to happen to me and then, it regrettably becomes HINDSIGHT.

The first time I was robbed in Peru, I felt something strange that morning. I had taken more money out to change and I remember telling myself, “So much money? Bound to be robbed today.” And?

The second time in Buenos Aires, just before reaching that robbery spot, I had warned Lydia and Carolyn that this was a poor neighbourhood, we had to be careful here for robberies could happen. They had looked at me with a skeptical look. I advised Lydia against carrying her camera outside her bag, thinking more of the slash-and-grab robbery. Indeed we were robbed later, but instead, from another kind of robbery.

So, I made up my mind. I would leave Peru now. Immediately after that, my heart felt so much lighter. Hmmm… to simplify Jorge Luis Borges (and I mean to r-e-a-l-l-y simplify Borges), there are so many forking paths in one’s life where one decision leads down one path and another leads down a separate path, forever forking into more and more paths, perhaps into an infinite number of paths; sometimes, there is the off chance that some paths might meet back again to the same situation, creating some sort of complicated labyrinths. Life is a labyrinth. (OK, I apologise… Borges sound WAY more intellectual than this.)

What would happen if I go to Cajamarca? I will never know. Have you ever wondered what if there are many little ‘yous’ each taking a different path as it forks, how would each of the ‘yous’ have turned out?

And so, when I arrived at Chachapoyas, I changed my ticket to leave for Lima at 1pm today.

The road was as usual, terribly bumpy and winding. We finally reached paved roads after 5 hours. Still, winding and winding around the mountains but on PAVED ROADS! From this point onwards, the stewardess strangely issued us with plastic bags to puke in.

Indeed, the Chachapoyan locals could not cope well on paved roads and many were throwing up into their plastic bags for the rest of the ride. Eeeww…



Lima, PERU to Arica, CHILE - 09 march 2003

Surprisingly, I slept rather well last night. It might be the straight Pan-American highway that was working for me.

I arrived in Lima at around 11am, after the 22-hour bus-ride. One did not go ‘wow’ upon arrival at Lima. One goes ‘uh-huh’ upon arrival at Lima.

Uh-huh uh-huh uh-huh.

Half an hour later, I had made my way to another bus-company and coincidentally, the bus going to Tacna was leaving at noon and so I was barely on steady ground for 30 minutes before embarking on another 20-hour bus ride to Tacna.



Arica, CHILE - 10 march 2003

Now, this night-bus did not work well for me. I was on the Economy bus and there were people who climbed on the bus even though there were no seats left. The poor things would rather stand.

I was sitting right in front of the on-board toilet, so it was rather stinky already and quite annoying with the constant usage throughout the night. Those people without seats were all gathered at the back, standing around me. A few held onto my head-rest, trapping my hair under their grasps throughout the night, their plastic bags hitting my face.

There was no air-con on this bus. All the windows were shut (because opening it a little would be noisy) and I could feel myself dying of lack of oxygen right there and then. I felt really claustrophobic. I had to ask the guy next to me to open the window a crack to survive the night. I think I sprained my neck too.

Amazingly, the bus arrived 2 hours earlier than planned in Tacna, ending my 40-hour bus marathon and beginning my 2-hour border-crossing procedure. I felt a sense of relief when I crossed the border.

I had gained 2 hours entering Peru two weeks ago. But back to Chile now, I only had to return 1 hour for they had just advanced the clocks two days ago.

I had more Argentinian Pesos with me and so I decided to try and go to Argentina as soon as possible. The first bus company said they would leave tonight.

TONIGHT! No, ¡no puedo! [I can’t!]. I cannot take another bus-ride tonight! I had not seen my toes for… let me count… since 5am in Lemeybamba, that’s what? 51, 52 hours??? I needed to be horizontal for at least 8 hours before I could embark on another overnight bus.

Thank goodness, another company would leave tomorrow. Hello, toes.