I’ve been experiencing distance as time for months now. Instead of thinking about an expanse of land between two points in terms of kilometers, I instead calculate (or feel) the hours, days, or weeks of cycling between those two points.
For example, Cusco is 3 days from Abancay, where I sit now, writing. Apparently the Americas are about a year and a half long from tip to tip, give or take a couple of months.
Maybe this has something to do with the way the people we’ve met in Latin America seem to interpret road travel. Since entering Mexico in December, every time we’ve asked “how far away is X”, the answer has invariably come in terms of hours rather than kilometers.
Something funny has happened to my sense of distance and time, however, since we started cycling the sinuous, unpaved roads that connect the cities and towns that lie in the heart of the Peruvian Andes.
We seem to be caught in a vortex where time and distance have no meaning.
For example: after rolling out of Ayacucho, Lucie and I faced a punishing, gear-grinding ride with a thousand meters of vertical gain on some of the worst roads we’ve ever seen. We put in a full day, climbing at 4 or 5 km/h and descending at a brain-jarring 10 km/h. To go any faster would have meant risking losing bolts, breaking spokes, snapping our racks and cracking our frames. At the end of it all, after setting up the tent and eating supper, we were treated to a lovely evening view of… Ayacucho! We could see each of its lights shining distinctly. I swear I could hear a brass band playing.
Another example: yesterday morning we spotted a sizeable city in a valley not 10 km away. Strange, I thought, we have about 45 km left before we get to Abancay, and there are no other towns on the map. Guess what? We were over 45 km away from the city, whose buildings and streets we could clearly distinguish. Or rather, 45 km of road lay between us and the city at our fingertips. It was well over three hours of riding; on a paved, straight road, we would have been there in about 30 minutes.
The map has become an utterly useless tool for gauging how long it will take us to get somewhere. In North America, we’re used to fairly straight roads that take you as close to “as the crow flies” as an army of engineers, some heavy equipment and a few billion tons of dynamite can get you. Not so in Peru. Two points that look like they’re a couple of hundred kilometers apart are in reality well over six hundred. There’s the vertical loss and gain that give the mountain roads an accordion effect, adding a surprising amount of extra distance. Then there’s the fact that the roads weave and wind their way through valleys and over mountains in a maddeningly circuitous manner, as if those who originally built them were paid by the meter.
Then there are the road conditions. If your front wheel is rolling over a big jagged rock, your back wheel is probably on a boulder. In the spaces free of whiplash-inducing washboard, there’s loose sand waiting to grab your front wheel. The surface deteriorates into washed-out stream beds in every second corner, and corners make up most of the road.
The road surface multiplies the time it takes to get somewhere by two. The vertical gain also multiplies the time by two. And voilà! Suddenly it takes exponentially longer to get somewhere than we think it should.
Is it worth it? Of course it is. The dirt roads let one into what I dare to call ¨the real Peru¨. We met great people, found amazing camping spots and probably saw as many alpacas as we did automobiles. For all my whining, we really enjoyed this last stretch and feel fortunate to have seen this part of the country.
Now that we’ve hit Abancay, we’re back on pavement for the first time in a while. The elevation chart looks flat as a crepe. We’ll soon be in Cusco in the company of good friends Darcy and Julie, just maybe the last familiar faces we’ll see this year. Machu Pichu and a new country (Bolivia) are just down the road. How do we handle so much adventure? you might ask.
Chaque fois que nous entrons dans les villages, on nous souhaite la bienvenue en nous criant « GRINGO! », ce qui attirent l’attention de tous. Impossible de passer inaperçu. Les enfants, heureux de nous avoir découvert, étirent leur plaisir et nous suivent en courant…
On fait le plein avec ce que l’on trouve dans les kiosques à fruits sur le bord de la route. Cette dame nous a vendu le meilleur avocat au monde!
La route jusqu’à Cusco sera pavée d’ici 3 à 4 ans. D’ici là, patience, prudence et crampons sont recommandés… surtout quand la pluie s’en mêle!
One senses that this relaxed, colonial Andean center of 150 000 is a place all its own, culturally independent from either Lima or Cusco. The city is visited by relatively few foreigners, in part because of its isolated location, and also because the region’s economy is structured around coca production, among other things, rather than tourism. Strolling along its ample pedestrian boulevards or ducking into a spacious, sunny courtyard full of cafes and craft vendors, it’s hard to imagine that Ayacucho birthed the notorious Shining Path, the insurgent Maoist group whose clashes with the government left roughly 70 000 people dead before the capture of leader Abimael Guzman (nom de guerre Presidente Gonzalo) in 1992.
We received our much-appreciated Peruvian history lesson from Gustavo, our Couch Surfing host, over some superlative seafood shortly after our arrival in town. Lucie and I threw budgetary concerns out the window, spending about $5 each (5 times our average expenditure for a Peruvian meal) on an unforgettable lunch. My Tiradito en Salsa de Rocoto was one of the most sublime and delectable dishes I’ve ever tasted. Saturday is when all the fresh fish arrives from the coast, over 200 kilometers (a 5-hour drive) away. Between a bite of his Ceviche and a nibble from Lucie’s Chicharon Mixto (a fried seafood platter that simply defies description), Gustavo explained that the Inca had a tradition of carting the catch of the day to Ayacucho using a network of trails and an army of messengers, a custom to which the mountain city owes its seemingly incongruous bounty of high-quality seafood.
We’ve been staying at Gustavo’s communications company’s 3rd floor office, which overlooks the colonial heart of Ayacucho. The office’s Wi-Fi access (extremely uncommon in Peru) and Gustavo’s hospitality prompted us to stay an extra couple of days to back up photos, upload videos, research the route ahead and catch up on e-mails. We’ve also been catching up on our sugar intake. There’s a place next door that makes dangerously delicious picarones, a fresh donut boiled in grease and served hot in a pool of sweet brown syrup. Take that, Krispy Kreme! Luckily, the place next door also sells decent red wine at under $3 a liter, which, along with the world-class locally-produced dark chocolate we’ve discovered (also next door!) is helping to keep our cholesterol just below “instant-death” levels.
Now that we’ve fried Picasa’s and Youtube’s servers, Skyped the crap out of people all over the world and Google Map’d the remainder of South America, it’s about time we get back on our bikes and pedal on to Cusco. The elevation chart between here and there looks like a cardiogram reading from a ferret on crack, with spikes peaking well above 4000 meters and valleys diving down to 1700 meters, over and over (and over, and over) again. Oh yeah–on gravel roads! But don’t you worry: after almost 2 months of Peru, we’re no longer the soft, sheltered, pavement-coddled asphalt addicts we once were. Perhaps it’s possible to be in a hurry when cycling for days on end on Andean goat paths at nosebleed altitude; however, we’ve found it’s best to just gear down, take a deep breath and enjoy the ride.
Check out our new Fly Us Home! page (Canadians!), updated Stats and the new Angels we’ve added.
J’ai mangé ma première porte de char du voyage. La dame qui a ouvert sa portière à l’aveuglette a aussitôt su que je n’étais pas contente. « No se hace! » (Ça ne se fait pas!), lui ai-je lancé bien fort à quelques centimètres des oreilles entre deux jurons québécois bien articulés. Mon taux d’adrénaline était aussi haut que le ton de ma voix. J’ai redressé mon vélo brusquement, dépoussiéré mes vêtements et poursuivi mon chemin. C’était hier et nous venions tous juste d’entrer à Huancayo.
Trois coins de rue plus loin, nous nous sommes arrêtés mangé des chorros (une pâte frite sucrée) question de décompresser un peu. Je me suis dit que ma réaction était peut-être exagérée. La dame s’était excusée rapidement. Mon vélo n’avait rien. Moi non plus. Et j’ai rarement vu les gens d’ici hausser le ton entres eux dans la rue. Mais c’était tant libérateur que je me suis rendue compte qu’elle représentait le bouc émissaire pour toutes les frustrations qui alimentaient une rage intérieure depuis mon entrée au Pérou. Une rage contre les automobilistes. La courtoisie de ceux-ci envers cyclistes, piétons et entres eux est totalement inexistante. C’est la loi du plus fort. Ils conduisent sauvagement, sans le moindre respect. Des éternels coups de klaxon deviennent un bruit de fond qui ne semble plus affecter personne. Je peux comprendre que c’est culturel; ne me demandez toutefois pas de l’accepter.
Le Pérou a réussi à me choquer. Je l’admets. Voyager ne signifie pas toujours rester ouvert devant tout, comprendre et accepter les différences. C’est aussi parfois être confronté à des comportements qui ne cadrent pas avec nos valeurs, nos habitudes de vie et nos convictions profondes. Et je crois que c’est correct ainsi.
Le Pérou ne laisse personne indifférent. Il vient chercher en nous toute une gamme d’émotions et de nouvelles sensations. Moins bonnes, parfois, mais bonnes également.
Côté paysage, c’est du jamais vu. Chaîne de montagnes enneigées, glaciers, troupeaux de lamas qui broutent le long des routes sinueuses au-dessus des nuages… c’est le genre d’endroit que l’on doit se pincer pour être sûr de ne pas rêver.
Côté culinaire, c’est un vrai délice! Rassurez-vous, on n’y sert pas seulement que du cochon d’Inde! Ceviche, pachamanca, lomo soltado, crème glacé artisanale, jus de maca, etc. Le Pérou est reconnu sur la scène internationale pour sa gastronomie exquise et variée.
Côté qualité de vie, je n’ai jamais constaté autant de pauvreté. Les maisons construites en terre se détériorent rapidement. L’eau, parfois rare, doit souvent être bouillie avant d’être consommé. Les ouvriers travaillent la terre à la main avec des outils rudimentaires. Les champs sont peu fertiles; ils peuvent à peine nourrir les familles, ce qui contribue à un exode urbain massif vers Lima qui augmente chaque année, créant chaque jour plus de rêves brisés.
Côté culturel, il semble avoir une grande tristesse présente dans le cœur des gens. Peut-être s’agit-il du résultat de la conquête espagnole et le renversement d’une histoire jadis prospère.
Côté rapports humains, la plupart des échanges sont habituellement amicaux. Habituellement, car cela exclue le tronçon de route entre Huanuco et La Quinua. Près de 100 km, long et pénible, à endurer l’attitude désagréable des péruviens: des gamins qui lancent des roches, un enfant haut comme trois pommes qui nous crie « plata » (argent), des chiens vilains, plus qu’à l’habitude, qui ne sont pas rappelés par leur maîtres, des adultes qui nous dévisagent et pointent du doigt sans gêne, sans oser nous aborder, etc.
Méchanceté? Impolitesse? Je n’aime pas ces qualificatifs. Mes filtres d’occidentale me laissent croire que dans ce « corridor du ressentiment », ils sont au moins très maladroits avec les gringos, un mot d’ailleurs qu’ils ont à mon avis trop souvent en bouche. Depuis, je suis plus réservée. Je me protège, bien que les gens soient redevenus sympathiques à nouveau. Le Pérou, c’est beau, mais la vie y est tough.
Sur une note plus positive, nous avons fait escale à Cerro del Pasco, la ville la plus haute au monde à plus de 4400 m d’altitude – imaginez! C’est une mine d’argent qui a été à l’origine de la construction de la métropole. Aujourd’hui, elle se développe et gruge certains quartiers. Les pompiers chez qui nous avons logé semblaient plutôt indifférents que leur caserne centenaire soit sur le point d’être détruite. Leur nouvelle caserne, plus belle et plus grande, les attendait déjà en plein centre-ville.
Quand nous avons visité la ville, c’était la dernière journée de propagande électorale (en espagnol, publicité se traduit par propagande, j’aime bien la sémantique.) La place centrale grouillait de tout bord, tout côté. Deux des partis avaient organisés, un en face de l’autre, deux spectacle différents sur la place centrale, se livrant ainsi une guerre de bruit. Typiquement péruvien! Quelques heures plus tard, l’un d’eux à dû plier bagage et laissez place au parti victorieux. Sur la scène, une indigène faisait danser la foule en chantant des airs traditionnels. Quelle ambiance!
In the chilly, rugged highlands of Peru, donkeys are occasionally crossed with ewoks to produce the ewonkey, a robust animal that can withstand the climate and help repel the Empire.
By the time we got up to the scenic mountain town of Huaraz in Peru’s Ancash province, I was already feeling the effects of the elevation. Since rising from sea level to more than two thousand meters a couple of days earlier, I hadn’t been able to sleep. Insomnia is one of the symptoms of altitude sickness, along with nausea, headaches and loss of appetite. I was beginning to wonder how I’d cope with the road ahead, which would take us over a pass nearly 4900 meters (16 000 feet) tall in Huascaran National Park.
In Huaraz, we stayed with Ivan, a local mountain guide and all round great guy who we met through couchsurfing.com. We pitched our tent on the roof of his small house were therefore literally right at home. I slept through the second night and eventually got my appetite back. I made up for lost meals by eating all the ceviche and excellent 1 sole (30¢) ice cream cones I could find. Since cevicherias and ice cream stands line Huaraz’s crowded streets, I was good as new in short order.
We teamed up with cyclists Matt and Greg before making our attempt on Huascaran. Greg started riding from New York about 10 months ago, and Matt, who we’d met in the Casa Ciclista in Trujillo, set out from Prudhoe Bay, Alaska, last summer. For the first time in a year, we rode as four. We made good progress as we rose up to the puna (high alpine grasslands) on secondary dirt roads and camped at about 4000 meters. It was clear that Matt and Greg had a faster pace than ours, and we enjoyed each other’s company before bidding adieus the next day.
The morning rose bright, cheerful, and frosty. We started out after a leisurely breakfast. The one-lane dirt road didn’t look too steep or rough, but it felt as though someone had turned up the gravity. We were fighting to keep the bikes pointed straight, riding at around 4 kilometers per hour. Every time my front wheel came up against something larger than a small pebble, I had to push with all my diminished might to keep my handlebars from jackknifing. More than once we had to get off and push. My head pounded as every meter gained seemed to equate with a loss of strength and focus. Every minor effort sent my pulse racing as though I’d just pulled off an explosive sprint.
That night Lucie and I “slept” between two peaks directly under a glacier, at about 4700 meters, the lowest point we could get to before sundown. I know I slept because I had dreams – about 100 of them, lasting no more than a few seconds each. By morning, I felt dried out, and my aching head was full of cotton. Lucie was in even worse shape than I was. I made her a strong coca tea and prepared breakfast with our sputtering stove set on flamethrower (apparently gasoline doesn’t burn so well above 4000 meters). All the water that we hadn’t brought into the tent was frozen solid. We were both in slow motion. The only cure was to descend. But we still had nearly 20 kilometers of climbing ahead before reaching the highest point on our route.
I managed to get us on the road by about 10 a.m. I’m at a loss to describe the kind of effort required just to get the bike upright. There was nothing to do but point our machines up the mountain and push on the pedals. We each fell into a meditative trance, taking in the occasional stone huts of seasonal shepherds, the improbable llamas, and eventually endless chains of peaks locked in eternal ice. It was nearly freezing and the unobstructed wind numbed our faces. We were dressed in our full Yukon outfits for the first time in almost a year.
Once we inched our way over the summit in the early afternoon, the road mercifully descended. It got warmer. My skin stopped tingling, and my mind steadily cleared. Eventually our dirt track intersected with a serpentine road of fresh, smooth, black pavement, and we were treated to an endless high-speed downhill. Our tires hummed as we hugged the corners, and our bodies regenerated in the oxygen-rich atmosphere. By the time we’d hit 3600 meters in the tiny town of Huallanca, I felt like Superman.
The world at the top of the Andes is lonely, beautiful and haunting. It’s impossible for me to separate its spare yet awesome force from my physical sensations of oxygen depravation and extreme exertion. Climbing over the pass was one of the most challenging things I’ve ever done, mentally or physically, and the experience is one I’ll never forget.
Every day in the Peruvian Andes we meet one or more wandering herds looking for a place to graze. Usually we encounter a mix of goats, pigs, sheep, cattle and donkeys. A dog or three helps keep things orderly, and the whole is coordinated by a woman with a stick.
The whole town (of 10 people) lined up across the one-lane highway and watched us eat Pachamanca with our hands. It’s a traditional dish of meat cooked in an earthen oven. One of the most delicious and interesting culinary experiences we’ve ever had.
This is in the remote Huascarán National Park, between Huaraz and La Union. We summitted at about 4900 meters. It was likely the hardest day of the trip, as every meter gained equated with a loss of pedal power. At night, our water froze, our stove sputtered stubbornly, and our heads were pounding. Incredibly beautiful, worth every burst blood vessel.
Cane juice is delicious and nutricious! It helped keep us going after our ride up from sea level to 3100-meter tall Huaraz. “Do the wasps bite?” I ask. Yes, the wasps bite. Now drink your juice.
My Tiradito en Salsa de Rocoto was one of the most sublime and delectable dishes I’ve ever tasted. Saturday is when all the fresh fish arrives from the coast, over 200 kilometers (a 5-hour drive) away. Between a bite of his Ceviche and a nibble from Lucie’s Chicharon Mixto (a fried seafood platter that simply defies description), Gustavo explained that the Inca had a tradition of carting the catch of the day to Ayacucho using a network of trails and an army of messengers, a custom to which the mountain city owes its seemingly incongruous bounty of high-quality seafood.
