Reclaiming the Washboard, Huaraz

Ahhh Peru...I think I love you. The beach bummin' beer belly is gone, and I'm back where I belong. Every morning I can sit out on the hostel balcony and watch the sun welcome in a new day, glistening over the snow capped peaks of the nearby Cordillera Blanca. The air is cold, yet crisp & fresh - a welcome reformation from the congested choke-hold which keeps a tab on most of the countries large cities. Huaraz itself isn't very picturesque; the grid like hub of structured streets is meekly ornamented with cheap food vendors, drab modern architecture & an uninspiring central cathedral which is closed off to the public. The grandeur of this place can solely be accredited to its surrounds. Nevado Hauscarán, at 6768m (the highest point in Peru) makes an imposing statement to the north of the town, crowning a ragged backbone of glaciated monoliths. Hundreds of turquoise tinted lakes lie hidden within precipitous valleys & high up on mountain slopes - shimmering as divine jewels of a white-crested range. This whole area is a hiking and climbing paradise. I could easily see myself spending a few months here, knocking off the best of whats on offer; all the while making the most of this incredibly consistent clear-skied weather. Yesterday I returned from the Santa Cruz Trek, possibly the most scenic I've ever done, and in a few days I embark on a week long epic around the Cordillera Huayhuash, made famous in Joe Simpsons book, 'Touching the Void.' The buzz has reclaimed me from an untimely demise. It's quite surreal to think I'm actually here; after all these years of fidgety anticipation. I've finally made it into The Peruvian Andes!! .....

Cruising The Andes in a combi

When all the fun was done, one by one my fellow partners in grime & crime began to depart the beach-side party playground. The Mancoran TattFest however, continued well past prime time. What started as an afternoon sideshow, soon grew into an infectious carnival. Everyone seemed to be lining up ready to plaster their bodies with tiny tokens of spontaneity & rebellion. On the day I left, the cue had grown three people deep. TattMan would have been making a mint!! My prize had to go to TouristTom, for his "stolen kidney" depiction, complete with an español word of warning. I found it hard to say my goodbyes, as I had in other such places in the past. That is one of the worst things associated with travel. The friends you make are temporary - a brief collision between two great sagas of life. More often than not (despite the self-proclaimed interest), you will never see that person ever again. If one day you do, things will be different. The moment you shared is gone. Backpackers create their own world of isolation, sheltered inside a bubble; disaffiliated from an outside reality. I've grown to love the people I've met here out on the road, some more than others - but life moves on, whether we like it or not; and every one of those lives moves on in a different direction. That's just how it goes. Mine was moving southbound, quick-smart!!

Mancoran TattFest!!

I chose to skip straight through the north of the country. There was nothing more I really cared to see, and no more nights I cared to waste. I jumped aboard a night bus bound for Chimbote, the first leg of my 24 hour slog down to Huaraz...ohhh goody. So far I'd been lucky with bus seats; my bag normally being small enough to fit underneath my chair. I guess Peruvians are puny...I found myself crammed in like a jack-in-the-box, unable to plant my feet flat on the floor unless I straddled my luggage. It wasn't all that bad until this whacked out Peruvian from Lima hopped in beside me to chat. He reeked of marijuana, and instantly took off on a marathon of words, not realising the grief I was in from my awkward position. What I was worried most about was my fresh tattoo. It was only a day old, and I was doing my best not to fuck it. I had no idea what would fuck it, so my mind was in tensed-up paranoid over drive. I received a low down on all things Limanean; from sneaking into girls rooms up windowsills, to dealing drugs at trance parties, robbing blind guys, and taking advantage of a mothers  good grace. Every now and then he would shoot off to the bus bathroom to smoke a little more out of his pipe, then come back with an even stronger smelling hash cloud hovering above him. I thought it might numb his tongue a bit, but he wouldn't quit. I searched for an escape out the bus window, watching the vast emptiness of the desert race past under a fiercely moon-lit night sky. I must have nodded off...soon I was dreaming of Kokopelli, popping his head over the seat a few rows in front of me & waving in lucid motions...

The sun was coming up, and it was time to get off this darn bus. I poked Lima in the head to wake his ass, and somehow managed to drag my bag down the aisle. Good morning Chimbote...what a shit hole!! I'm glad I only had to linger around the terminal for an hour or so. The town looked like a a decaying fetus, and kind of smelled like one too. Being Peru's principle fishing port, the stench of the catch buried itself deep into the receptors of my nostrils, so much so I could almost taste it. I attempted to rid the foul scent with strawberry yogurt & empañadas, but only succeeded in misplacing my ticket. Lucky for me, I sweet talked the agent & she let me take my seat despite. That bus trip took me far up into the highlands, initially across more fruitless countryside, before winding its way up into the Cordillera Negra & along the course of the lofty Cañon del Pato. It was a rough but spectacular journey, and gave me the feeling that I'd truly arrived in the heartlands of Peru. As we approached Huaraz, the white snow caps of the Cordillera Blanca dramatically made their first appearance. I was mesmerised. There were mountains everywhere!! This was why I was travelling The Andes. I could not wait to get amongst it!!

This leads us to the start of the Santa Cruz Trek. I spent a day in Huaraz collecting bits & pieces in preparation; also to get myself slightly more acclimatized once again after my week long stint back down at sea level. I found myself a cheap map, brought a new pair of woollen gloves & loaded my belly full of 5 sole gourmet from my new favourite restaurant, opposite my hostel. After an early night & a last minute pack down, I left town at the crack of dawn in the back of a combi van. En-route, this little old lady decided to take a nap on my shoulder. I thought I'd likely given her a black eye when we hit a speed hump at full throttle, sending her nogan into a violent ricochet, hard off the bone. Poor ol' dear...

Once dropped in Caraz, I plowed my way up hill in the direction of the market place, where I would catch my next ride to the trail head. It's nice when the locals point you in the right direction; it takes the guess work out of the commute. In South-East Asia they'll most likely place you on their bus even if it scoots to the opposite side of the country!! I soon found myself alone in another beaten-up combi, waiting anxiously in the hot morning sun with a toothless broad and her baby pet goat. Enter, The Dutchman. Ahhh...now here is a character of comical composure. Tall & gangly, long headed, loud eyed, fat toothed & gummy...he made an appearance like some home schooled kid who was unaware that people were taking the mickey out of him. He shook his introductions & made himself at home beside me, with an almost dribbling retard-like smile. It kind of creeped me out, but I knew straight away that this guy was an innocent bystander who wouldn't hurt a fly. Well, so I assumed. Somehow he reminded me of Beaker from The Muppet Show. That kept me amused while he rambled on about all his bushwalking expertise. I simply nodded along and took in the wonderful scenery unfolding outside the vehicles windows.

Spewzin...I was hoping we wouldn't have to pay. I didn't expect there to be a ranger station until we finished the trek in four or five days. Hesitantly, I handed over the 65 soles in cash. A pity sum for the experience to come. While the ranger was gathering our change, we all heard screams and calls for help at the adjacent restaurant. Our French friends were over there having a last minute breakfast, but quickly made the move when all the commotion began. I thought it was merely a dog fight gone haywire...turns out one of the old chaps had suddenly dropped dead in the backyard. Mental. Best not stick around. As soon as we got our change we hurried off along the track, away from the firing line of heated un-rationalism & misery.

The trail wound it's way up hill, following the course of a river at the base of a sheer sided canyon. The towering walls were immense, and the scorching heat only added to the western-flick like atmosphere. Great birds circled high over head, and every so often we'd find ourselves surrounded by a mob of moping cows. It was hard not to notice the imprint surrendered by the hand of humans. Discarded stone walls, in different stages of disrepute, lined the sides of the track in linear arrangements; contrasting abnormally with the jagged randomness of nature. As it turned out, I got stuck with Beaker...and to be fair it wasn't so bad, however I was more than ready to retreat to the peace and quiet of my tent each night come sun down.

Santa Cruz Valley

We took lunch under a grove of shady trees, admiring some isolated peaks, before pushing on to our first nights camp at Llamacorral. In the distance you could clearly make out the icy profile of Mt Taulliraju, illuminated in the late afternoon sun. In trying to keep out of everyone else's way, we chose to pitch our tents far up in the top corner of the field. We were practically the firsts ones there, so I couldn't figure a problem. Seems you can please no one. We became quite the unpopular pair with the mule herders, who seemed a little pissed that we were doing the walk all on our own without a guide. "No donkeys?? Urrghh..." They stood staring at our choice of camp for a good minute or so before gruffing off & setting up their groups gear somewhere else. Then they let they're donkeys run wild, nearly trampling our tents!! I bit my tongue & enjoyed the vistas, munching my way through half a packet of spaghetti. As the sun went down, the temperature dropped dramatically; and after a brief chat with some school group kids from the UK who had turned back due to altitude symptoms, I retreated into my tent - chucked on the Ipod for a while, then crashed out fast asleep...

First nights camp

If only I could count on the weather like I can here, back home. Man, what a morning!! The bluest of blue skies to welcome in my day. Not a single blemish to be seen, bar the full moon yet to call it quits for the night. To top it off - a perspiration free tent. Easy going, I must say. A relaxed morning gave way to a more than pleasant afternoon of hiking. The route was fairly flat for the most part, passing by two shallow lakes before detouring across a barren sand bed created by a huge landslide (which brought down with it a glacial lake), only this February. As we continued, more & more snow capped peaks came into view. Caraz, Pumapampa & Quitaraju, all making a bold individual statement. My two favourite however, made lasting impressions as we zig-zagged our way up the Lago Arhueycocha side trip. Behind us stood a picture of mountain perfection, Artesonraju. When you conjure up an image of a classic mountain, you dream up one such as this. From the flat plains before base camp, the triangular spire takes its grandest form. Some claim that this was the peak used as inspiration for the logo of Paramount Pictures!!

Mt Artesonraju

Lying at the end of this great bowl like valley awaits another classic, Alpamayo. It's glaciers wrap around to join those of other neighbouring peaks to form a single continuous fortification of ice. As we stashed our packs inconspicuously away in the scrub, we met two climbers from The Statesheading up for a summit attempt. I thought they were crazy. The ridge line looked no more than two meters wide at some points, and their final camp was to be had in the col, which to me looked no better! They reassured us it was all a lot tamer on the other side, before we bid them farewell & wished them the best of luck. Our day was capped off with a visit to the lake, and a trudge along a high track across to our camp. I couldn't have asked for much more. Taulliraju & Artesonraju loomed above us, as Beaker & I spoiled ourselves with Pringles & Snickers Bars.

Lake Arhueycocha

The new day came, as crystal clear as the last. I still couldn't believe our good fortune. While packing up my gear, I got chatting to some people from one of the other guided groups. A guy from Japan was apparently in a pretty bad way, either due to fever or altitude sickness, and they'd had to lift him up onto a horse for the days journey ahead over the pass. Whether that was wise or not, I'm not one to say. When I passed him coming up the hill, he appeared lifeless, slump in the saddle. Altitude is an unpredictably scary barrier I wouldn't be game to mess with - for me however, it didn't seem to prove a problem in the slightest!! Stoked! I found myself flying up the pass, rapidly approaching the high point of the trek with no shortage of energy at all. At the top I ran into my Italian friends, and we all took some time out to soak up the experience & the surrounding environment. Another turquoise lake could now be seen perched beneath Taulliraju, and the landscape seemed to abruptly warp once on the other side of the pass, opening up as a great grassy pan dotted with small tarns. I spent a good two hours up there; hikers meeting from both sides of the track at this one significant focal point. There were many cool photos to be had, and I was loving all this socialisation in such a breathtaking setting. The time soon come however, when we had to bid our new found buddies goodbye. Scrambles, jellies & donkeys rolling on down the rocky path, signalled it was time to keep on keeping on.

Sitting aloft Punta Union with Mt Taulliraju

That night we camped in another steep valley, close to the junction of tributary river. The open grasslands were surprisingly silent & wind free - our only unexpected visitors being that of local women & children selling soup & cerveza. The kids all took a mighty interest in me setting up my tent, and only giggled and run off if I tried in any way to communicate. The older ladies sat on the grass, spinning wool on a hand held spindle. It kind of had me transfixed; I don't remember ever seeing something quite like that before. Shit Nicko...wool doesn't come off sheep in yarns after all...I brought a beer & enjoyed the interesting company before nodding off for a final night in the bush.

Peruvian Picnic

I was awoken much earlier than I would have liked the following morning by some old codger begging for left over pasta. He didn't seem to understand that this was our last day, and that we actually had none left at all. Then the kids chirped in. They seemed to wander out from behind the trees or something. "Galleta," one would say - "yo tengo hambre" pleaded another. The world is a cruel place. How these kids live day to day I have no idea. As heartless as it may seem, I simply refuse to give into begging. That has been my stubborn attitude since I went to Thailand on my first overseas trip. I don't believe it solves the problem, and only further encourages its habitual continuation. We left those poor impoverished souls to wait it out in the field, and made our way to the end of the trek. It felt nice to drop the packs for the final time, but also a little sombre to leave such a special place, taking with us only memories & photographs. However, our journeys apparent climax was soon to be out-climaxed, by the rough & winding combi trip back to civilisation. What a blow out!! The road zig-zagged its way back up towards the snow line, reaching a pass which seemed higher than that of our trek!! An entire vertical 1000 meters or so, seperated our combi from the beautiful Llanganuco Lakes in the valley far below. On the right towered the sightly peaks of the Nevado Huandoy, and on the left shone the white washed humps of Huascaran. It was a fitting finale, to a fruitful adventure.

View down to Llanganuco lakes

Now I'm here, back in Huaraz, waiting it out until my next endeavour. For all those thinking about embarking on The Santa Cruz - you won't regret it. And don't let wankers trick you into believing you have to go with a guide either. As one local guy said to me: "If you get lost on the Santa Cruz, you're a fucking idiot." His words, not mine. Over & out!!!

So long, from one happy camper loving life...
To all my friends & family, hope all is swell & spritely. 
Chat again soon...

Nickoooooo xxxx