2/6/06
CHACHAPOYAS, PERU

Morning at the market in Barranca, the cook asked, Head, or chicken? The locals at my table were bobbing up pieces of tongue. Chicken. Behind me a colectivo sat waiting to fill seats for the Supe valley, where it could drop me near the site of Caral. The driver lounged on a wall. Leaving in a colectivo is a back-and-forth process: the driver taps the horn, shuts the engine off, talks to associates, etc. I thumbed at my dictionary and ate my soup.

Peru is investing a lot in Caral. Archeologists shovel pyramids out of the desert while builders hammer together lunch stands. The site is America's Ur. In 2000 they carbon-dated fibers from mud bricks, and the resulting dates-- back to 2900 BC-- made Caral-Supe the third oldest civilization on Earth. One of the archeologists showed me around. The site is laid out like Peruvian cities to follow. They've found all kinds of tools and crops, musical instruments, sun-baked clay figurines, quipu (strings knotted to record information), and seats carved out of whale vertebrae (?!).

From Barranca it was a day's journey east and up to Huaraz. Huaraz is a climbing mecca in the Cordillera Blanca, a range of 20,000-footers shining white out of the clouds over gorges. Thunderstorms roll in every afternoon, so I stuck to day hikes. There are some dizzyingly blue lakes up there, and the pre-Inca ruins of Wilkahuain and Chavín. Coca leaf tea lightens the altitude sickness.

On the mucky roads over Huaraz, little communities straggle downhill in crumbling walls and pigs tied by one trotter. A one-toothed old woman sitting on a step told me to give her money and squawked, ¨Chicha!¨ when I didn't. A fedora-wearing guy named Donato led me on rock-hopping shortcuts and invited me to drop by his village someday for fish. One evening in Yungay, a restauranteur showed me his AK-47 and insisted I stick around to watch a Quechuan bullfighting DVD-- they tie a live condor to the back of the bull. At night in the Yungay market, people bunched on a curb lit by a bodega's TV, lipping popsicles while watching a Chuck Norris movie. The juice lady got to know me after a couple nights. Banana and papaya with milk.

The roosters crow at dawn, but only because they've been crowing nonstop for the past three hours.

Transport in the country is done by colectivos and combis, set-route vans with decals across the windshields that say, "JESÚS PRÍNCIPE DE PAZ," or, "EL SEÑOR ES MI PASTOR." You sit in rattling metal while the jockey barks up business and the driver beats the horn. Once full (full) and with sacks tied to the roof, the enterprise barrels out in a flurry of gestures at competing vans. They pick up more people on the road. Garbage is wadded out the windows and the van interior becomes a cyclone of dust.

Peru's presidential election is this coming April, and walls are painted with campaign logos. In Huaraz, a rally for Alan García filled the Plaza de Armas. García already had a presidency, marked by hyperinflation and (alleged) human rights abuses. He's still hugely popular. His campaign slogan is Siempre Con El Pueblo, meaning that he's a man of the campesinos, despite the Paris education and bribery scandals and so forth. Fireworks banged against the sky and García emerged wearing a peasant's mantle, his arms held high. Known for his oratory skills, he stirred the crowd right up. Also running is ex-president Alberto Fujimori, who currently is held in Chile for murder, kidnapping, and crimes against humanity while Peru tries to extradite him. Fujimori's supporters market a cola, Fuji-Cola. Today I saw a house painted with Fujimori's slogan and, below, Whether he's coming or not. It's best not to talk a lot of politics here.

From Huaraz I long-hauled back to the coast, passing through Trujillo and getting a room in Chiclayo, a big city with a labyrinthine market. I found the haircut street and sat for a barber who wouldn't stop shaving. In nearby Lambayeque I visited two closed museums and failed to see the hoard from the Royal Tombs of Sipán. One combi later, I trailed sweat around the site of Túcume. The mud-brick pyramids were worn to mounds with bits of pottery and shell eroding out. It was far too hot; all I could think of was cold water.

On the overnight bus to Chachapoyas, I awoke in the dark to the engine off and rain on the roof. Road washed out, I thought, and fell back asleep. Next I opened my eyes, it was daylight and the bus was churning through brown water. Above us, thick cloud forest hung from cliffs spraying waterfalls. We were on the other side of the Andes-- all this water flows into the Amazon.

From whitewashed Chachapoyas, lumpy roads go to mossy-roofed villages. You're apt to share a ride with fighting cocks or a sheep hoisted upside-down onto the roof, and you might have to help roll rocks off the road. The driver fiddles with the radio as he cranks the car up hairpin turns high over the Río Utcubamba. Eventually you're on foot and relying on the friendliness of the locals. Walking footpaths between villages, you may be laughingly offered a puppy, given your first taste of chicha (home-brew fermented from masticated corn and yucca-- tastes like hard cider), offered a communal plateful of hot beans (eat with fingers), or just given a lot of gold-rimmed smiles. The scenery is wet and spectacular.

The Chachapoyas and Chillaos held out for a long time against the Incas thanks to the terrain and a penchant for high walls. They even interred their dead on sheer cliff faces. Painted clay sarcophagi stare out at huge valleys, looking like they have something to keep quiet about. On hilltops cluster the circular foundations of Chachapoya buildings, and Inca roads are still in use-- though the villagers apparently just know them as old stone roads.

The citadel of Kuélap stands on a ridge blurring out of a sea of fog. You climb three tiers of huge limestone ruins where mossy trees stoop under red bromeliads. The air smells of orchids and chatters with birds. I'd gotten up at 3:30 AM for this. It was otherworldly. Some wonder if history would've been different had the Incas chosen this place for their last stand against Pizarro.

Rain poured during my descent from the ridge-- the trail was a mud sluice and I spent three hours slipping and windmilling my arms. I finally groaned onto a bench in Tingo and took a soggy Xerox map from my pocket. It was now in two pieces, which concerned a little kid. He went into a house for a bottle of glue and hunkered over this slop of paper, beaming when he was done with some careful work. You just can't get into a foul mood around these people.

This was the day-- about an hour later, while bouncing in a combi alongside a heaving river-- that I decided to not return to the coast just yet. Things are too good out here. I'm headed east, will buy a hammock, and will hang it on a boat.