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| The view from the chakra of our untrusty steed, "Bad Donald" |
For ten days we’ve been living in a
“chakra”, or farmhouse. It is in San Jeronimo, a mountain town 30 minutes north
of Cusco. The chakra is a concrete house covered in white stucco. It has
wooden floors, no running water, and a dysfunctional fireplace that was built
poorly and now spews smoke into the house when you try to light a fire. Most of the heat at night is from the gas cooking-stove (two burners and propane). Water
comes from a spring outside, and the bathroom is a concrete toilet in a little
outhouse. A flush consists of pouring a bucket of water or two into the toilet
to drain your waste. Josh is very proud he went 6 days without a shower. We
left for 10 days to go to Puerto Maldonado, where we worked on a farm in the
jungle, rode motorcycles in the tropical rain, and did an ayahuasca healing
ceremony with a shaman named Don Ignacio. We came back exhausted, but ready for
our journey south in our “new” 1971 Volkswagen cucaracha.
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| Helen and friend (his name escapes us right now) after Helen was attacked by wasps on our 5 hour boat ride up the Tambopata River, to the farm in the Amazon. More on the jungle later. |
Wednesday morning, we woke up at 6
for an early start. We drank instant coffee, fried a couple eggs, and packed
the rest of our stuff. The rooster crowed at 3 in the morning because Josh went
to the outhouse and woke it up. It was raining and we had everything ready to
go. While we were outside packing the car, our neighbor Yolanda, a farmer with two
kids, a husband, three cows, a lamb, various chickens dogs and cats but no car,
asked us for a ride down the hill. We said we’d be ready in twenty minutes.
An unknown person had pilfered our
gasoline tank that we’d stupidly left next to the car. The battery light was
dim when we turned the key to the ignition, and sure enough, nothing. Not
enough electricity to start the car. Josh had a little J-pats freak out, and
kicked the plastic gas tank into the woods, claiming to fucking hate everyone.
He was pissed. Really pissed. After a cool down and discussion, we decided to
attempt to push the car down the mountain for a jump-start. Josh pushed, Helen
steered. After half an hour we moved the car 15 meters through a grassy muddy
stretch from where it was parked to near the road. We still had 50 meters of
uphill muddy pushing, before we reached the beginning of the downhill. Finally
Helen convinced Josh to ask the neighbor, whom he suspected stole the gasoline,
for help. He said, “ I fucking hate Julio, I don’t want to ever fucking see him
again”. Julio is Yolanda’s husband. Helen on the other hand was convinced we
needed the help of another man. No one in the village owns a car. Finally, Josh
admitted he wasn’t strong enough to push the car by himself. In the cold
drizzle, steam was coming off his body. Grunting, convinced and beaten by
gravity, wishing he was a lineman in the NFL, he knocked on Julio’s door.
Julio’s son, a14-year-old boy whose name we can never remember, opened the
door. His rich dark skin always has a smile. He has beautiful white teeth and
dimples. Every few days we would come home and he’d be re-painting the
windowsill where the rooster liked to sit and shit down the side of our house.
His parents no doubt told him to do this, but he always did it with a smile on
his face, and also collected the rooster nightly. Of course when we said we
needed help he immediately was ready and stepped out of the door into the rain.
More than ready, he seemed honored to be asked.
With a great deal of effort the three of us pushed the car 50
meters up hill through the mud, ankle deep in cold puddles. Helen's shoes would be wet for a week. We thanked him
profusely, although we failed to jump-start the car on the first downhill. Then
we coasted down the mountain fifteen minutes in neutral. We made it to the bottom with the
engine off where we hoped to find a jump-start from someone else with cables.
Luckily, we found a shop at the bottom that charges batteries. An old man raced
around with tools, full of energy. Unable to jump our battery, he lent us one of his with no
deposit. He took ours to charge, and told us to come back in two hours.
We headed to the market to pass the
time. We got a plate of vegetables and baked potatoes from a Quechua woman for
a dollar, and got some snacks for the road. We bought instant coffee and went
on the hunt for a thermos. There were four stands in a row that sold thermoses.
Each vendor made sure to unscrew the top and hold it up to her ear and then
ours. “Listen”, they would say. As with anything that shape you can hear a
humming like the ocean, but I guess here in Peru that means the thermos works. The
ocean test is their standard to ensure quality. We finally bought one for 5
bucks. It passed the ocean test, and does keep our water hot. On our way out of
the market we stopped by a stand selling coca leaves. People here have told us
that if you mix limestone with coca leaves you get a better effect, more like
cocaine. There were many options- white square stones, grey round stones, and black
tar-like stuff. The women there thought something was hilarious as we
questioned them about which to buy. Were they all stoned? We got a grey and
black ball you bite pieces off of, and a sticky square of something resembling
licorice. Then we headed back to the car.
As we pulled out… the clutch petal
seemed to disappear. It was on the floor. We had broken the clutch cable. Off
to a good start? So, Josh pushed the car, put it into first and started it and
we drove without a clutch, to a repair shop. The owners referred us to a shop
across the street, and an hour later we had a new clutch cable. We paid the guy
with a banana and 15 soles (about 6 bucks). We now have wires holding the clutch
and brake up off the floor. From there we drove to get our charged battery, a
Kola Real, a sparkling clear sugar-free pear beverage, and 20 pieces of gum the
texture of Bazooka Joe and flavor that lasts no more than 2 minutes. From
there, we started off towards Julliaca.
It was 3:30pm. The road to Julliaca
is the same road we took by bus to get to Puerto Maldonado. The difference is a
turn off 100 kilometers down the inter-oceanic highway that runs from Peru to
Brazil. By highway, we mean a two lane, freshly paved road that winds up, down
and around mountains, valleys and prairies. A compañera at the English language
institute informed us the drive to Julliaca would take 5 hours. 4 hours into
the journey we saw a sign; “Julliaca 163 kilometers”. We were traveling uphill
and the Volkswagen was maxed out at about 40 km/hr. And then it started to rain
as the sun went down beyond the mountains ahead. The Volkswagen has no heater
and no windshield defrost system. The faster you drive, the faster the
windshield wipers swipe. This is humorous for the first five minutes of rain.
Then the windshield fogs, tractor-trailer trucks rattle the car as they rush by
roaring. Buses and trucks are coming at you with high beams on. The sun goes
down in the mountains, and it starts to get very cold. Cold, tired, wet, and
(Josh) stressed, we stopped the car by the side of the road and smoked a
cigarette. Hmm, the exhaust smells a little like gasoline. Putting it to the
back of our minds we got in and continued on, in search of the nearest hostel.
Downhill we made great progress, but uphill we couldn’t go more than 30km/hr.
Finally we came upon a stretch of road and in the distance we saw a field of
orange lights. Perhaps a place to rest for the night. We continued on the main
road, which didn’t bring us into the city, the city we so desperately wanted to
find. We stopped at a grifo (Petro-station) for a fill up. Out came the attendant, an
old woman in classic Quechua attire, and we asked her if there was a hostel
nearby. She pointed to a dark dirt road, which led in the direction of the
lights, and she said “Santa Rosa”.
We were very close to continuing on
into the rainy night, but instead we turned around, pointed our car up the muddy
dirt road and drove for 2 kilometers into the center of the little town. We
stopped at the first “hospedaje” sign we saw. From a small store selling fruit,
bread, soda and canned goods, a man came out to the car to greet us. It was raining
hard, and the street was empty. All the stores, except for this one were
closed. This means all the doors were shut and the streets were dark. Not even
dogs were out in this weather. The man came up to our window and said
“hospedaje?” We said “Si, por favor”. Helen was freezing, and we wanted a warm
room as soon as possible. The man put wooden ramps next to the curb and we
drove inside his stable to park the car. The room cost us 20 soles for the
night, about 8 dollars. Before we went to sleep, the guy from the hostel led us
to a where he said we could get some hot food. He walked us through the rain to
the doorstep of a restaurant. They were about to close, but welcomed us in
none-the-less. Treated like family everywhere we went, we felt like we’d been
part of this small town for years. We had a warm bowl of soup. Helens opinion
of the soup; broth and pasta with chunks of unknown meat left uneaten. Josh’s
opinion; ziti in hot broth with beef cubes. Following that was a plate of rice
and fried potatoes, and a cup of hot tea. The man who served us was extremely
curious about the U.S. and our opinion of Peru. We chatted a while then left
and walked around the corner back to our hostel. In our room were three small
beds and one large poster of a badly drawn smiling cartoon boy holding a
notebook. The notebook said “Nuestras cuentas” (our stories). The family’s kitchen was the door next
to ours, and their bedroom the next one down. The bathroom was across the way,
and the sink outside. A crooked mirror hung on the cement wall outside. We went
to bed, huddled close for warmth. Josh had nightmares, woke up at 3 in the
morning and couldn’t go back to sleep. As usual, Helen stole all the covers.
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| On the Road |
