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Published: October 13th 2008
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On to Chachas
There's the lake, but where' the town? Edison out in front. After that wonderful orange and 20 minutes of repose, Edison points westward. “I really like it here he says, but we must go.” Mario makes his offer for me to ride Juanita downward. They've seen the grace with which I traverse the rocks and boulders, and I must’ve looked tired plodding as fast as a sloth up those last hundred yards or so. But what was the rush and no need to stress test the cardiovascular apparatus at this altitude for the first time in my life. The headache is there, and I am tired, but there's no need for drastic measures. I suspect in times past that this is the point a few tired trekkers take him up on such an offer. My perspective: I got my arse up here, I can drag it down!
But we do need to move, and it’s an hour or more to the designated lunch spot, at a point below, called by the mountain it is nestled below. It would be here that we could make camp, but Edison advises that we can make it all the way to Chachas, where better accommodations await us. In English, he avoids the word hotel, choosing
The Lodging
The Chachas Hotel. Happy to be here. ‘lodging’ instead. He’s a bit vague on the distance, and I do believe he’s resorted to saying it’s just award the corner, or just down the road, or only a little further.
So we’re Chachas bound, and it seems like the hard work would be done. Now 7,000 feet of descent await us, and a bit of rise in between. Chachas is a village at the bottom of the eastern most slope of the Valle del los Volcanes. On the 1:1,750,000 map of Peru I’ve got, Chachas isn’t listed, but there’s the lake just west of the town, and the river leading off toward Andagua.
In contrast to those of Edison, Mario, and the mules, my clumsy feet are no match for the loose rocks and boulders, and my toes, usually quite members of my body requiring little attention, are beginning to protest.
My appetite for the rice and canned vegetables is slight. I stomach the cheese sandwich. I’m going to hold out for soda pop and whatever meal might we find in Chachas.
Off we go, west and down. We follow a vehicle road for a few miles, then foot paths north and west as the
Star Shaped Red
Flowering shrubs. Star shapped red, blue like larkspur road follows the less drastic contours on a northerly course. We cross a stream, then climb a gradually for a mile before heading down with a vengeance. Down and down. The foliage changes, but the terrain grows rockier. Over time, rocks roll down.
Edison tells me that one year near here he’s in a bus full of trekkers heading down to Chachas, and it nearly rolled over the edge of the road. I have a sense that he’s used maybe two of his nine lives. Better to walk I say.
We follow another road past someone’s ranchhouse of adobe and tin, and then there’s a small opening off the roadside and soon a sign indicating Chachas. Edison tells me it’s now 8 km, but he’s misread the sign, intentionally I’m not sure. It’s one of those signs that reads differently depending on you’re direction. It’s 8 km back to our lunch point, and as it turns out some as yet to be published distance to Chachas. The afternoon is wearing on. We can see Lake Chachas and one of the dark volcanoes in the valley below, still far below. I’ve taken some photographs of foliage and flowers along
Orange Flowers
Fern like leaves, orange blossoms. Above Chachas. the way, but now my main focus has become, “Where is Chachas?” That clearing by the stream some 5,000 feet and 10 miles back is fine now, filtered through a veil of fatigue, hunger, and sore feet. The appetite has returned. I don’t like to complain but the trek fare was growing old.
By now we’ve walked five hours to Edison’s estimated four. Fatigue is catching up and causing time and my feet to slow in direct ratio, and now we see a glimpse of village, but it’s not Chachas. I didn’t register its name, but as it turns out we’ll walk south to a point very near that village and turn back north to follow the road to Chachas. What’s wrong with that village I ask Edison in Spanish. “No habitacionnes,” he says. No lodging. At a closer look, it has the look of a factory town. It’s close to dark now, and I say, Chachas no existe. He simply smiles. It’s just below that hill. As we finally close on Chachas, Edison explains that if the lodging operator sees me, he will jack up the price, so he runs on head to negotiate our beds, leaving Mario
Chachas Grub
Men are heading in to where we ate dinner and breakfast. and I to walk on in the dusk.
I find it’s easier to walk over the rocks in the dark. Mario is tristamente he says. For tonight his job his done. We won’t need the mules tomorrow for the last leg to Andagua. There’s always a car or a truck that can carry the gear for a small cost.
There is a Chachas, and Edison flags us down as we approach the square. Our lodging is across from the municipal building on the square. Someone opens the large double doors to let in the mules in an enclosure above the building. Mario unloads our gear and reloads what's left into the basket of sticks roped together. Edison explains that he’ll start for Cabanaconde tonight and get to a place back above Chachas where there’s forage for Juana and Vincente.
After a few minutes, we head to a store that also serves meals. The fare is simple, soup to start followed by lentil and alcpaca stew. At the table, there’s an elderly man and his son, who’s in town from Arequipa for a visit. The son is in the postal service, his old man is wizen and slight. The son speaks with words of deference to him. Both are in sweaters. The tall woman who serves us is now rush. She wheres a blue native cap, shaped in a deep bowl, and gray pants and vest. Edison asks her if we can wash our hands, and there’s a delay of 15 minutes as she steps out somewhere. Then we are waived in through the kitchen, to the toilet and sink. There’s laundry soap to wash our hands. The insulation under the pole rafters is cardboard from old shipping containers.
In the room where we eat, which is the same room of 10 by 30 as the store, there’s a small black and white TV. An American like show is on. This provides some laughs as we eat, the elderly man slurping his soup in the old way. We share a few moments of appreciation for Mario’s service. He’s a very good muleteer, and his mules are well-tempered. I was bitten only once, but a terse cuff on the ears took care of that.
After supper, and the tip to Mario, he’s off. I’m back at our bunk room. We’re the only one’s here tonight in a room of possibly 20 beds. There’s no toilet that I can see so I head outside soon after Edison goes off to make a phone call to his Dad. His Dad is not so well Edison says; has a heart problem. He also wants to check in with his sitter watching his two kids. There’s a Peruvian soccer game to check up on. I sip on the Cola Real and talk into the digital recorder, catching up on a few details of the trek. “I don’t think I need to do that again,” I say to myself. But true to his word, Edison has gotten me to Chachas, and only one day to go.
I can only assume Mario and his mules are off in the hills above.
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