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On his way home...
They do Grasshoppers properly in VilcabambaArriving back in Huaraz after my trek, I had to sit down and have a think about what I was going to do next. Ever since Cusco I have been wandering a bit. Everything to that point had been carefully planned but the second half has been mapped out entirely on impulse. Often I just make up my mind about the next spot and go and buy a bus ticket to travel that same night.
Prior to leaving for the Santa Cruz Valley I had been panicking a bit about getting to Ecuador and booking my Galapagos cruise. I had almost decided to bus
back to Lima and fly up to Quito, something that makes me laugh now (due to the cost of the flights and how simple it is to get there by bus). Luckily I ran into a friend from La Paz and we ate great Thai food while she talked some sense into me. I am convinced that she only appeared there to point me in the right direction.
So, I planned a long haul over the border and into Ecuador by bus: Huaraz, Trujillo, Piura, Loja, Vilcabamba in one movement. I was a little disappointed
WHAT THE...?!
Not what you want to see just before you head out into the night. to be missing the beaches of Mancora but I planned to make up for that with some sunny days in Vilcabamba and the Valley of Longevity.
Huaraz to Trujillo was simple enough, although incredibly uncomfortable with my busted leg. On arrival I found out that I had almost 24hours before I could make my connection, I decided to crash out in a hostel and get some sleep.
After a couple of hours rest I was feeling decidedly less manic and wandered around the odd and almost empty house chatting to the staff. One of these was a tour operator who desperately tried to convince me to come with him to the pre-Incan ruins of Chan Chan. I had originally planned to do this and, technically, I had time but I was tired and trying to stay off my leg as much as possible so I declined. He then switched tactics and told me all about an amazing doctor that he knew who had fixed his chronic back pain and, from what rapid Spanish I could understand, was a bit of a local miracle-worker.
I was wary of being scammed but I was also disappointed with the (non)treatment that I got in Lima, so I decided to give it a shot. I liked the idea of being fixed up before I got to Ecuador. So off we went through the unappealing streets of Trujillo in his taxi, stopping off to pay his water bills and allowing me time to observe almost everyone casually dumping their garbage onto the footpaths. Half eaten fruit flying out of car windows, candy wrappers flicked into the wind, cigarette packets tossed away, everyone seemed to be doing it... A bit depressing.
When my new best friend eventually found the home of this doctor we were a long way into a rough-looking part of the city. A group of guys stopped the car at the entrance to the street and asked us our business before hauling back a big barrier to allow us in.
It´s always difficult to know who you should trust and I was starting to question our little adventure when we finally found the place and I saw that there was indeed a doctor waiting for us.
I was led into a long, bare concrete home and introduced to an ancient man in a white lab coat, he was sitting on a bench and seemed to be holding himself up with the wall rather than simply leaning against it. Although beaten down by age, his solid frame and big black glasses carried a great deal of authority in that little place and several women fussed about him re-enforcing this feeling.
What followed was an amusing process of me explaining my problem in simple Spanish and my guide repeating what I said in rapid Peruvian-Spanish. Our entire conversation took place without myself or the Doctor understanding a word of what the other was saying. For some reason we could both understand the guide…
We were told that the doctor that I had come to see was actually this man´s son and that he was out at the shops. I was quite happy to wait and stick to the plan but the old guy was keen to demonstrate that he was the original and the best. He motioned me over to his side where he grabbed my arm, using my weight to haul himself up off the seat. We were underway.
The diagnosis was a strained tendon, something I was already well aware of. The solution appeared to be to press down hard on the area and vigorously rub it with a special stone. He launched into it with gusto, barking orders at his assistant/wife who replied with plenty of her own rapid-fire advice. The pressure from the stone was
incredibly painful and I immediately went light-headed and almost bit through my lip but we had a little audience of family members so I was determined to hide as much of it as possible.
On and on he went, like he was sanding back and old cupboard. Just when I thought I couldn´t take any more, he stopped and removed the stone to examine his handiwork. His wife exploded into a tirade of abuse and stopped just short of slapping him over the back of the head. He had removed several layers of skin and created a big weeping wound on the side of my knee. He stared at it for a while before clearing his throat and moving on as if this was a completely normal part of the process. I was fairly confused but not that annoyed, he seemed convinced that we were making progress and I was really quite fascinated by how my day in Trujillo was turning out.
Part two of the treatment was the liberal application of a bizarre green paste which looked and smelled like sticky guacamole. (This herb-paste heated up as it was rubbed in and I was surprised to feel that it remained hot to the touch for the next three days). I was then bandaged up with a big white strip of sacking that still had the vendor´s logo visible on it and instructed not to shower for three days.
“NEXT!”
Well, that was all very interesting.
I thanked the guide as he dropped me back to the hostel, walking with even more difficulty than before due to the seriously-tight bandage. I couldn´t adjust it too much as it had been stitched up with a huge needle and thread.
The rest of the day passed incredibly slowly as I waited for 11pm to roll around. I ventured back out into the city and ate at a schmick restaurant to fill up on steak and pasta for the next leg of my trip. On the way home I handed the taxi driver an address and made a special delivery, a letter of thanks to the cool Peruvian family that I met on my flight out of Sydney. Way back in time, what seems like years ago, they had given me a long list of advice about Peru and included their address “just in case I got in trouble”. I was happy to be able to thank them formally for their generosity.
After what seemed like the longest day of my trip, it was finally time to go back to the bus terminal. As I prepared to leave the hostel I came across a disturbing sight in the bathroom. Inside the open medicine cabinet, someone had scrawled “Death” in red lipstick. I have become a little superstitious on this trip and it was an interesting thing to read before my night bus to the border.
My first dodgy taxi driver tried to trick me out of a Fifty Sole note by insisting it was counterfeit (a big problem over here) but after a little chase around the petrol station I was reunited with my money. The overnight trip to Piura was fairly uneventful, I watched with interest as an extended-family conducted an elaborate prayer circle prior to our departure.
Arriving in Piura before dawn, I decided to camp in the bus terminal and venture out to the next bus company when the sun came up and it felt a little safer to be wandering around with all of my worldly possessions strapped to me.
It wasn´t far and I joined a group of people snoozing in the deserted terminal, waiting for the staff to arrive. As it turned out, one of the staff was amongst the rest of us snoozers stretched out on the cushioned seats - he jumped awake when the phone rang much later that morning.
The border crossing was
much easier than I expected. We crossed at Macara and I have since heard nothing but complaints about the other main control point at Tumbes (near the coast).
The transition from Peru to Ecuador was abrupt and a stark contrast. The notes scribbled in my little red book paint a picture of a chaotic lime market at harvest, hopping vultures fighting dogs for control of the garbage dump and long stretches of desert.
Ecuador waits over the river like another world.
Great forested-mountains rise up steeply as if they have been stopped there by the water. All around me was up and down and up. It is as if four giant hands have lifted the green blanket of Ecuador and shaken it roughly, allowing it to fall back to earth full of crumpled hills and valleys.
My first minutes in another new country were filled with little observations about what made it so different. It smells different… It´s hot here so it´s either the sweat or waves of perfume to disguise it. I prefer the former. Lush fields being systematically burned back to a bright stubble, shiny brown people - bigger and softer looking, shops run my teams of grinning children. Mist.
We were climbing and climbing into the green hills and everything out of the window would appear and disappear in the clouds as we motored upwards. While we were making our hundredth stop to collect people by the side of the road, a clap of thunder shot into the record books. It almost popped out the windows of the bus. I loved it. As the rain came down, I saw that it was the no-nonsense variety - fat, heavy drops that want to nail you to the pavement.
Loja bus terminal. Evening. Are we there yet?
It was kind of fun to be on my first long series of transport changes. Most of this trip has felt like a problem-solving game and I take a strange masochistic pleasure in the tricky parts. After a wide-eyed walk through the terminal (Pickpockets! “They´re after me´ lucky charms!”) I worked out that I had to get a mini-bus taxi to Vilcabamba and it just happened to be leaving…IMMEDIATELY. “GO! GO! GO!!”
They
love rushing you onto buses here, it is one of the defining things of my South American experience.
I spent ninety minutes squeezed into the little van trying to chat to an old lady who I had overheard referring to me as “the gringo”. When I challenged her with a smile and told her I understood everything that she was saying (lies!) we got into a conversation that pretty much ended up proving her point about me being a gringo. Nice to have a chat though.
I was squirming around in my seat with my leg burning and observing that I was twice the size of all of the other passengers when the lady in front offered and then insisted that she fold up the aisle-seat for me so I could stretch out. This was extremely nice of her since she had to move her baby to allow me this comfort. However, as hard as we tried we couldn´t work the simple mechanism and get the seat to fold up, both giving up with a shrug.
This was all very strange but I quickly realised that I was being looked after by that force that has been following me around. Seconds after we stopped trying to move the seat, the child opposite us exploded into dramatic projectile vomiting.
As I emerged from cover and handed his mother my big wad of travelling toilet paper, I was acutely aware that my legs would have been absolutely
painted if we had been able to move the seat. Even my bad luck is good luck
Eventually the nice old couple next to me poked me out the door saying “Vilcabamba, Vilcabamba!” and I was left by the side of the road in the dark of a quiet little village.
I had made it, two days after setting out. I was ready to kick back in the valley and recharge.
- - -
(Not many photos for this entry - I don´t get the camera out on bus trips and this was one long series of bus trips…)
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GigiyOmar
Gigi y Omar
leg
Hey! Is your leg better? I have a blog here too, and while browsing some pictures I came up with your story... I am peruvian... I am sorry you had to go through all that...