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- Herausgeber: Eland Publishing
- Kategorie: Lebensstil
- Sprache: Englisch
Traveller Dervla Murphy and her nine-year-old daughter Rachel, accompanied by an endearing mule named Juana, clambered the length of Peru with only the most basic supplies to sustain them, spending most of their time above 10,000 feet. Their gruelling journey was marked by discomfort and danger, though mother and daughter remained resilient throughout, sustained by their great affection for the beauty of the Andes and impoverished people who live there. Eight Feet in the Andes takes the reader on a journey from Cajamarca, near the border with Ecuador, to Cuzco, the ancient Inca capital, over 1300 miles to the south. Confronting horrors and joys along the mountain paths, the Murphy women prove that they are as indomitable as ever.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016
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Dervla Murphy
EIGHT FEET IN THE ANDES
Travels with a Mule in Unknown Peru
This book has to be for the rest of the team – Rachel and Juana
The men at Cajamarca were now ready to set out towards Cuzco. They were attempting one of the most staggering invasions in history. Without supplies, communications or reinforcements, this tiny contingent was going to try to force its way into the heart of an enormous hostile empire, to seize its capital city. The road from Cajamarca to Cuzco lies along the line of the central Andes. It crosses and recrosses the watershed between the Amazon basin and the Pacific, and traverses half a dozen subsidiary ranges of mountains and wild torrents. The distance as the crow flies between the two cities is some 750 miles, and the journey was comparable to travelling from Lake Geneva to the eastern Carpathians or from Pike’s Peak to the Canadian border, in each case following the line of the mountains.
TheConquestoftheIncas, John Hemming
Contents
Acknowledgements
We are grateful to:
H.E. the then British Ambassador to Lima and Mrs Harding for advice and hospitality.
The staff of the British Embassy in Lima, who magnanimously solved a multitude of problems for two non-British travellers.
Amelia and George Calderbank, whose mule-buying help was invaluable and whose hospitality in Cajamarca remains unforgettable.
Carolyn and John Watson, who gave us a Happy Christmas at the end of our trek and whose understanding hospitality acted as a ‘bridge’ back to normal life.
Geraldine and Ken Brown, of the Potato Research Centre, Lima, who smoothed many paths for us and introduced us to a fascinating cross-section of Lima society.
Dr John Hemming, Secretary of the Royal Geographical Society, whose advice, encouragement and enthusiasm fortified us before our journey and whose book, TheConquestoftheIncas, provided us with inspiration, instruction and entertainment between Cajamarca and Cuzco.
The staffs of the Library and Map Room of the R.G.S., whose cooperation was, as always, generous and whose fault it was not that we got lost so often.
Jacqueline Clark, who ruthlessly deleted a load of rubbish from the first draft.
And last (but from the reader’s point of view most important) – Diana Murray, who expended as much mental effort on this book as the author did, and to better effect. Without her editing, EightFeetintheAndes would never have been fit for publication.
Foreword
When we walked across the border bridge from Ecuador into Peru my daughter Rachel was aged nine years and eight months. For three years, since our return from trekking with a pony through Baltistan, she had been attending the primary school at our little home town of Lismore while I wrote a book about Northern Ireland. She was due soon to start her boarding-school career, which would preclude long journeys, and post-boarding-school she would naturally want to travel with her contemporaries, so I regarded this Andean frolic as our last major journey together. We planned to buy a riding-mule in Cajamarca, one of the main towns of northern Peru. Then I would walk while Rachel rode the 1300 miles (or so) from Cajamarca to Cuzco. We were not intent on following exactly the conquistadores’ route as described by Prescott – the nineteenth-century American historian – in his HistoryoftheConquestofPeru. But inevitably, because there are so few routes through the Andes, we would be covering much the same ground – at much the same season. Francisco Pizarro and his men left Cajamarca on 11 August 1533 and conquered the Inca capital on 15 November.
1
Cajamarca: four plus four makes eight
CAJAMARCA, 3 SEPTEMBER
This morning Rachel and I took a collectivo (communal taxi) from the coastal city of Chiclayo to Cajamarca: a five-hour journey. Nobody had bothered to heal our taxi’s wounds after various misadventures (or was it just one major smash?) and it looked like something off a scrap-iron dump. If there are any rules of the road here, the brawny, dark-skinned mulato driver hasn’t yet heard of them. He chatted cheerfully to the couple in front, roaring with laughter at his own jokes and not noticing when the señora went white with terror. A restless five-year-old shared the back with us. His favourite game was pulling the driver’s hair as we were about to overtake a truck on a blind corner, or knocking his cap over his eyes as we negotiated hairpin bends with yawning abysses on one side. I grew not to love him.
This must surely be the world’s most dramatic approach to a great mountain range. For some thirty miles beyond Chiclayo we were crossing a flat, hot, grey desert, with lake mirages shimmering in the distance. Then came an area of scattered hillocks, their crests fuzzy with green scrub. And our excitement was ever increasing, as the faint mighty blur of the Andes, all along the horizon, became more solid, distinct, awesome. One approaches the Himalayas gradually, from 2,000 to 5,000 to 12,000 feet … But here one seems to leap from sea-level to 10,500, swirling and swivelling through sheer, rocky, barren gorges, glimpsing narrow valleys, sometimes sufficiently irrigated by glinting streams for ribbons of green to set off the dry colours of stone and sand – brown, red, grey. Minuscule dwellings perch on apparently inaccessible ledges. Tiny patches of maize flourish on almost sheer slopes. Diminutive, colourfully-attired campesinos, carrying loads or babies (or both) on their backs, sprint up near-vertical paths. Burros abound, though our eagerly questing eyes spotted no mule. Often we looked back in disbelief at our road far below – a thin agile serpent, coiling itself around the flanks of the Andes. The many rattling plank bridges looked quite unable to bear a bus or truck and seemed not ideally suited to taxis. This road is quite new. Previously, luxuries like grand pianos and motor-cars were carried to Cajamarca by porters: as to Lhasa and Kathmandu.
At 3.30 p.m. we booked into Cajamarca’s Gran Hotel Plaza, which the South American Handbook describes as ‘dirty’ (in brackets). To us it seems immaculate and we are paying only £1 a night for a spacious, high-ceilinged double room with two beds and handsome hand-carved red-wood furniture.
Our spirits were high as we set out to explore Cajamarca. Today being Sunday few people were about and those few were mostly Indians – on whom we’ll be chiefly dependent for months to come, so we studied them closely. Their physical resemblance to the Tibetans dispels any doubts one might have had about migrations from Central Asia across the Bering Straits. Andean Indians are on average much smaller than Tibetans: otherwise the likeness is uncanny. Not only are their features Tibetan, but often their hairstyles (including some men’s plaits), and the way they carry their babies, and sometimes even their gestures and expressions. Their gait, however, is different. Tibetans stride out – men and women alike – while the Indian women, many of whom go bare-footed, proceed most oddly with an irregular hopping/running/trotting movement not unlike a pheasant’s. They also seem much less robust than the Tibetans and evidently they age quickly. We saw several apparent grandmothers suddenly swinging their infant burdens off their backs and sitting by the roadside to suckle them. Nor are they as out-going as Tibetans; rather the other extreme, with a tendency to keep their eyes averted or downcast on seeing gringoes. We are fascinated by the women’s Panama hats and layers of skirts of varying hues. Often two or even three hats are worn simultaneously, as status symbols: the equivalent of the Hindu woman’s gold bangles. Children wear them too: even toddlers, still travelling on Mamma’s back.
In a small dark eating-house, where no food was available, silent Indian family groups were sipping Inca Colas (the name tells all) – presumably their Sunday treat. One wall was covered by a crude, sad, life-sized mural of Atahualpa, the last Inca ruler, hand-cuffed and gazing over a valley well stocked with anachronistic eucalyptus trees. The Indian proprietor asked, ‘You know Atahualpa?’ When I nodded he went to the door, pointed towards the Plaza de Armas, where topiary freaks have a lovely time and the head of Atahualpa is unmistakable, and made a self-garrotting movement accompanied by a realistic death-rattle. ‘Muy triste’, I murmured sympathetically. ‘Muy perfido!’ retorted the proprietor grimly. How many local Indians retain in their racial memory some trace of the sickened horror that must have overwhelmed Cajamarca on Saturday 26 July 1533, when the Inca was garrotted at dusk after a repulsive exercise in Spanish hypocrisy which ended with his baptism into the Christian church? When we crossed the Plaza de Armas we were on that stage where the last act of the Pizarro-Atahualpa drama took place.
Scene One had taken place eight months earlier. On 15 November 1532 Francisco Pizarro and his 150 Spanish soldiers arrived on the pass above Cajamarca and found themselves overlooking the Inca’s army: 40,000, at least, seasoned troops in full battle order. The illiterate Pizarro, who had started life as a child swineherd in Estremadura, was then in his mid-fifties and a poor horseman – but a great leader. He at once realised that the Spaniards were trapped. If they retreated, showing their fear, they would probably be slaughtered by those Indians who had aided them on their march from the coast. The only course left was to attack. Throughout the night of 15/16 November the conquistadores remained on the alert while Pizarro devised a sixteenth-century ‘psyop’. He reckoned that by capturing the Inca he might effectively demoralise his army and, as captor of Atahualpa’s sacred person, be allowed to take command of the situation.
Next day 150 Spaniards defeated 40,000 Indians and captured Atahualpa. Within two hours each Spaniard killed at least fifteen of the Inca’s immensely courageous bodyguard, all of whom died defending their ruler. No Spaniard was killed, or even seriously wounded. Atahualpa’s offer of tons of gold and silver in exchange for his freedom was eagerly accepted by the Spaniards. Within months more than eleven tons of gold objects (the irreplaceable masterpieces of Inca goldsmiths) had been thrown into the Spanish furnaces. The silver objects produced 26,000 pounds of good silver. That ransom would now be worth almost three million sterling.
By July Atahualpa had realised that the Spaniards meant to keep him prisoner. When he tried to organise a rescue Pizarro decided, apparently on an impulse, to kill him. According to Prescott, Atahualpa was ‘bold, high-minded and liberal. All agreed that he showed singular penetration and quickness of perception. His exploits as a warrior had placed his valour beyond dispute. The best homage to him is the reluctance shown by the Spaniards to restore him to freedom.’
Pizarro’s crime was widely condemned in his own day by his compatriots. The Spanish court, like the rest of civilised Europe, was appalled. The Emperor himself wrote to Pizarro: ‘We have been displeased by the death of Atahualpa, since he was a monarch, and particularly as it was done in the name of justice’. Many modern mestizos (of mixed Indian and Spanish blood) regard their Indian fellow-Peruvians with contempt. Yet the Emperor Charles V, then the most powerful ruler in the Western world, saw the Inca as a fellow-monarch who participated in the divine right of kings.
Towards sunset we walked to a carved rock, known as the Inca’s Seat, which overlooks the valley from the top of a steep hill on the edge of the town. (Our ascent was slow: suddenly we were aware of being at 9,500 feet.) Here Atahualpa sat while inspecting his troops and since his day the view can have changed but little. Below stretched a town undefiled by modern architecture, its roofs all red-brown tiles, its church belfries curiously squat; these were left half-finished as a protest against a Spanish tax on completed churches. The valley floor is now drought-burned, a beautiful but tragic golden-brown expanse scattered with rare patches of irrigated green. Last season sixty per cent of Peru’s rice crop was lost through drought and there is no foreign currency available for essential imported rice: many people are going hungry. And another calamitous season is on the way.
4 SEPTEMBER
Outwardly Cajamarca is classic Spanish colonial: slow, tranquil, unspoiled. At noon the sun pours gold into narrow, quiet streets where the complacent carved façades of only slightly decaying mansions seem unaware that the Spanish Empire is no more. In the several market places rickety stalls sell a contrasting array of goods ancient and modern, including dried llama foetuses for use in magical rites. The air is pure, clear, invigorating: never too hot or too cold. Across the intense blue of the mountain sky high white clouds occasionally wander, their shadows seeming to alter the textures and colours of the nearby ranges. Long centuries before the Spaniards arrived – or indeed the Incas – this valley was settled and cultivated. And somehow one is aware of the tentacles of its experience stretching back through millenia of unwritten but not unimportant history. It has an old and secret soul; the colonial mansions seem quite modern.
We moved into one of those mansions this morning, as guests of Amelia and George Calderbank, a warm-hearted couple whose advice on mule-buying will be invaluable. Dr Calderbank is Director of the local Agricultural Institute, a British Government sponsored project to help raise the productivity or Peruvian farmers. Amelia has taken charge of our mule-hunt and today she expended a great deal of time and energy on letting it be known far and wide that a strong, quiet riding mule is urgently needed. It may take us several days to find one but I can think of no more enchanting town in which to be delayed.
5 SEPTEMBER
Our mule-hunt continues and Rachel is in Paradise: riding de Paso horses, inspecting stud-farms, conversing at length with a variety of mules and generally being equine. She says riding a de Paso is like ‘travelling in an armchair’. These extraordinary horses are now much in demand on the US market and fetch thousands of dollars at Lima sales. We looked this afternoon at one superb light chestnut mule whose dam was a de Paso. He is a family pet with a knowing look and at once we fell in love with him; but after a long suspenseful search for his owner our hopes were blitzed – £600 sterling and no haggling. Our limit is £150. A pony would be cheaper but an unwise choice given the terrain between here and Cuzco, plus drought conditions. Mules are incomparably more sure-footed and have more stamina and smaller appetites.
This afternoon we acquired our tack. A de Paso breeder sold me a saddle, blanket, bridle, leathers, stirrups (with shields made out of old motor tyres), a leather namdah, leather overpiece, leather head-collar, string girth, padded crupper and four yards of rope-all for £25. I requested a plain crupper instead of the long, elaborately fringed tailpiece worn here on formal occasions; this impressive relic from the caparison of a knight’s steed would not be entirely suitable for the trails ahead. All this tack is well-worn but in perfect condition and the leather is of a far higher quality than anything now available in the local market.
6 SEPTEMBER
This morning’s mule-hunt took us to La Colpa, a Co-operative farm some seven miles away which was the British Agricultural Mission’s first base. George’s advice helped the new Co-op to use their government ‘Improvement Grant’ wisely and get off to an unusually good start. Previously La Colpa was an hacienda of 1200 hectares (400 irrigated) which had been in the same family for over 300 years. Then in 1972, under the military Junta’s radical new Agrarian Reform law, it was given to the local campesinos whose ancestors had worked on it as semi-slaves since the 1660s. Luckily a good ‘natural’ leader came to the top – a rare type among campesinos – and he is able to take all the major decisions, telling the workers what to do and when, and generally standing in, psychologically, for the dispossessed landowner who now lives in Lima.
Peru’s latest and most drastic Agrarian Reform programme was hurriedly implemented, as a political measure rather than a socio-economic reform, though the campesinos would have needed years of practical training and mental preparation to equip them for such an upheaval. Various sanguine ‘experts’ forecast that they would take naturally to Co-op farming because the Incas so brilliantly developed communal agriculture, which is the obvious way to deal with Andean terracing and irrigation problems. But the ancient ayllu and the modern Co-op make quite different demands on the community and the individual. Never before have the Indians had to plan ahead and few seem able to do so now; they put only enough work into Co-op land to provide for the immediate needs of their own family and as a result most Co-op farms are a wasteful shambles.
As La Colpa is comparatively successful, partly because of British advice, one rejoices to see the campesinos working the land for themselves rather than for some already too-rich landowner who lacks the Incas’ sense of social responsibility. Yet there is an inevitable melancholy about the destruction of any traditional way of life. La Colpa, like all large haciendas, was a self-contained hamlet dominated by its church tower – white-washed, red-tiled, surmounted by a plain cross, handsome against a background of giant eucalyptus. The church is now disused and its attractively plain interior is disintegrating. All around it, separated by wide cobbled courtyards, are dozens of other white-washed, red-tiled buildings: cow byres, piggeries, granaries, dairies, a saddler’s workroom, a smithy, a bakery, hay loats, harness-rooms, hen houses and many neat workers’ cottages. The family home, with a fine pillared portico and a long, deep verandah, has become the Co-op headquarters, its gracious rooms converted to a series of offices, stores, meeting-rooms and a scruffy cafeteria now closed because no one can afford to use it. Swarms of obese, half-tame rabbits are kept in the patio where an elegant stone fountain no longer plays. We walked through the pleasure garden between well-kept borders of exotic blooms shaded by towering eucalyptus. Little rockery ‘islets’, each with a miniature ‘hacienda house’ for geese, rose from a trout-filled ornamental lake fringed with weeping willows and crossed by wooden Chinese footbridges. In a far corner, swings and see-saws were discreetly concealed by crimson and gold flowering shrubs. Beyond a high cactus hedge several huge tiled barns, constructed of the local reddish mud, stood out against the sheer grey-blue rock-face of a nearby mountain. At a little distance from the barns were more workers’ homes: two-storeyed, for the senior staff, including the primary teacher supplied by the hacienda for its own school. I wondered then if it is for the over-all benefit of Peruvian society that an hacienda like La Colpa – an oasis of order, dignity and simply beauty – should be, as it were, ‘reduced to the ranks’. Does not mankind need such oases, when they can be maintained (as La Colpa was) without injustice to the masses?
7 SEPTEMBER
Given time, the grape-vine always works. Today’s mule-hunt started at 7.30 a.m. when Señor Federico Fernandez, a friend of the Calderbanks, collected us in his Landrover. He had heard of someone with several mules for sale: an unusual circumstance, probably connected with the drought. For miles we bumped over narrow tracks, the windows sealed against thick clouds of dust. Five campesinos gave us contradictory directions and it was 9 a.m. before we found our man, though he lives scarcely twelve miles from Cajamarca. ‘When you are trekking’, advised Federico, ‘never ask these people for help. It’s better to get lost your way than their’s.’
We had agreed that Federico should pretend to be the buyer so I made no comment when eight mules came cantering together across a steep, sun-browned mountainside. But at once my eye had fixed on an elegant, glossy young lady with an intelligent expression: about 12.1 h.h. and a dark bay, shading off on belly and legs to a most unusual creamy-russet. After much leisurely consideration of other animals we discovered that my secret instant-choice was aged three and a half, perfectly broken, good in traffic and the most expensive of the herd at 55,000 soles.* Federico seemed impatiently amused at the idea that anyone would ever pay even half 55,000 for such a miserable, weedy highly-strung little animal who obviously had no stamina and couldn’t carry anything more than a well-grown five-year-old. On that note he swept us all into the Landrover and quickly drove off. ‘Tomorrow’, he said, ‘we return and offer forty and we get her for forty-five. She is a good choice – wiry and willing and docile. Also very beautiful. Maybe she is a little young, but better that than too old. In Cuzco you may sell her for 80,000 because there they have no good mules.’
‘Why didn’t you haggle today?’ I asked. Federico smiled. ‘It is better to leave our friend in anguish because he has lost a wonderful opportunity. Then tomorrow he is so glad to see me back it is easy to get for forty-five.’ ‘Or forty?’ I suggested. Federico frowned and shook his head. ‘Maybe, but that would be unkind. She is worth forty-five on the local market now.’ I liked him all the more for that.
Federico now revealed two unexpected bureaucratic obstacles. ‘You must go to the Prefecture’, he said briskly, ‘to get a document requesting everyone to help you in your troubles.’ I protested that we aren’t expecting any troubles, my allergy to bureaucrats almost bringing me out in spots. But Federico was firm. ‘No one can walk from Cajamarca to Cuzco without having many troubles. This document you must obtain. Otherwise it is not safe to be in wild places.’ I remembered then that the Incas allowed no one to travel without a licence; had the population taken to wandering uncontrolled on their lovely new roads, the meticulous Inca organisation of society, from village level up, would have been jeopardised.
‘Also’, continued Federico, ‘you must obtain from the police a stamped document, a certificate of mule-ownership, which you bring tomorrow to be signed when you have paid. Do you remember your animal’s brand? No? You have not an eye for what is necessary in our country! But I remember! It is JL. So the police write all details, and exactly describe her, and when she is stolen other police help you. Without this document they believe you have stolen her – and you cannot sell her.’
In the Prefecture – a labyrinthine and decaying colonial edifice – we had to deal with a horrible little man (round, yellowish, shiny) who took pompous stupidity to the furthest extreme. He was a minor official, a political appointee who under the Junta has no real power and so must seize every opportunity to inflate his self-importance. He spent twenty minutes going through our passports, scrutinising every document however irrelevant, and then he questioned my credentials as a writer. When I produced a letter of introduction from my publisher, mentioning all my books, he shrugged and flicked it aside. ‘Where are these books?’ he asked insolently. ‘If I see no books, how can I believe you write books?’
Grinding my teeth, I was about to point out that people don’t normally walk through the Andes carrying seven large volumes which they have no wish to read. But luckily Amelia – faithfully by my side as interpreter – got there first with a sweet-toned, casual reference to a telephone call she had had from the British Ambassador in Lima asking the Calderbanks to assist us. Ten minutes later we had our embossed, stamped, signed and sealed letter requesting every citizen throughout the length and breadth of Peru to render us every possible assistance. Let’s hope we have no occasion to use this document.
At the Police Headquarters I was most courteously received by a kindly, unassuming man with a delightful sense of humour who turned out to be the Second-in-Command for Cajamarca Province and so of considerable importance. Without even glancing at our passports he organised the mule chit and, while it was being typed out, offered us coffee and much good advice about our route. When I explained that our main concern will be to avoid motor roads, wherever possible, he chuckled and pointed out that over part of our proposed route there aren’t even footpaths marked on any of the available maps. He warned us to avoid fiestas in the smaller and more remote pueblos where pisco-maddened men occasionally kill strangers for no apparent reason. I didn’t take this too seriously, though I’ll remember it; it’s the sort of warning one receives from townsfolk in every country with an unpoliced hinterland.
This is the beginning of the fiesta season and after an early supper we went to the near-by village of Los Baños del Inca to enjoy the beginning of a two-day celebration of the Virgin Mary’s birthday. Christ’s mother is still firmly identified in the Indian mind with the Inca Pacha-mama – Mother Earth, source of fertility. Vatican statisticians may count Peru’s Indians as ‘Christians’ but their adaptation of Christianity bears little resemblance to the original. On the evening of Atahualpa’s murder, future developments were foreshadowed when the conquistadores’ Indian interpreter, translating for Pizarro’s chaplain, told the doomed Inca, ‘The Christians believe in three gods and one god and that makes four’. This was but the first of many crushing defeats for orthodoxy. It proved far easier to annex the Andes than to transmit any recognisable form of Christianity to a people already happy with their own simple rituals, all in some way related to the practicalities of everyday survival. Threats of Hell or promises of Heaven never really got through.
Few mestizo townspeople were present at Los Baños but Indians were swarming on the Plaza in front of the church. There a wicker cage, some thirty feet high, held an illuminated statue of the Virgin. Tomorrow morning, after a special Mass, this will be carried around the village in procession. Another, smaller wicker cage held a man wearing a black poncho and drinking chicha from a two-litre plastic jug. During the night he will be severely whipped as a scapegoat but he won’t notice because by then his jug will have been often refilled from one of the many barrels of chicha that line the roadways. This mild, maize-based beer is succinctly described as ‘murky drink’ in the index to John Hemming’s The Conquest of the Incas. It is refreshing and palatable, though some over-fastidious foreigners avoid it because the fermentation process is begun with the aid of human saliva.
8 SEPTEMBER
This morning we went to a hairdresser and Rachel emerged red with rage looking as though some Amazonian headhunter had tried to scalp her. I pointed out consolingly that on the Andean highlands one’s coiffure is of little moment. Officially all Peru’s banks are now on strike but the indefatigable Amelia found one which admitted us, as desperate cases, and exchanged our 500 soles notes for a mini-sackful of small-denomination notes suitable for rural areas. Even in Cajamarca, it’s hard to change anything above a 200 soles note. We were slightly disconcerted when a worried woman behind the counter of a chemist’s shop, who had been informed of our plans by Amelia, presented me with half-a-dozen suppositories lest Rachel might develop an infection on a mountain-top. Apparently Peruvian medical opinion swears by these ghastly devices as a general panacea.
The exotic can come to seem normal within a week. Now I feel at home among the throng of campesinos who arrive in Cajamarca before dawn – the men and boys in swinging red/brown/orange ponchos, the tiny women comically squat in multitudinous skirts, the babies sleeping soundly on the pavements while Mamma sits cross-legged beside a little pile of eggs or potatoes, or a meagre spread of trinkets, or bunches of flowers, or herbs, or alfalfa for the cuys that are kept by most Andean households. I’ve even got used to the Indians’ odd, faraway look, as though they live in a world so remote from ours that they cannot share things with us – and don’t want to.
After lunch Federico drove us back to Martin the Mule-Merchant. As we got out of the Landrover all the herd approached, ever inquisitive, and from a distance we could recognise our choice, her long furry russet ears pricked forward as she trotted towards us, legs dainty as a Jersey cow’s. I hope not too dainty for the task ahead … By 4.30 the deal was done and Rachel and I had solemnly named our travelling-companion ‘Joanna’ – Juana (pronounced Whanna) in Spanish. We had personal reasons for choosing Joanna but did not contradict Federico and Martin when they assumed that she was being pessimistically named in honour of Queen Juana la Loca – after all, her brand is JL!
Then we debated – to shoe or not to shoe? If shod, Juana might go over the edge on one of the many narrow, rocky paths between here and Huánuco. If unshod, she might go lame on such a long journey. Federico was for shoeing, Martin against. We looked at her feet which have never been shod and are in perfect condition. Eventually I decided against, arguing that there is a certain finality about going over a precipice, whereas going lame is a disagreeable but usually temporary misfortune. If her feet do prove too tender she can be shod somewhere along the way, preferably beyond Huánuco.
Juana has never worn a bit but responds well to a complicated rope noseband-cum-bridle which Martin presented to us. We had brought our own tack and I practised coping with the girth which has no buckles but is secured by a diabolically involved system of leather thongs and iron rings. When Rachel had mastered the art of riding without a bit, Juana was taken five miles across country to Federico’s hacienda, from where we’ll start our journey in the morning.
* About £155
2
Left Foot Forward
CAMP OUTSIDE MATARA. 9 SEPTEMBER
Arriving at Federico’s hacienda this morning, we were touched to find a group from the British Agricultural Mission waiting to see us off: a gesture that made both of us feel quite homesick on leaving the Cajamarca valley. We won’t quickly forget the kindness of the entire Mission staff during this past week.
Juana emerged from her stable looking slightly puzzled yet interested in the changing scene; this is, after all, her first day away from an obviously loving owner. I groomed her briskly, murmuring sweet nothings – not because grooming was necessary (she shines like a new coin) but to accustom her to my touch, voice and smell before I began the less pleasurable process of saddling and loading. Then Rachel held her, Federico’s groom hovering watchfully nearby, while I struggled to come to terms with those esoteric thongs and rings. (I’ve never been good with knots.) She stood motionless, only her ears twitching – forward! – as she happily received Rachel’s fulsome compliments. Having at last secured the girth and got the crupper on I relaxed; given this degree of good behaviour, the day might even come when the crupper could be left attached to the saddle.
Loading was easy. All our gear for the next four months is tightly packed into two small attached saddle-bags (made in England) and our two Diana-bags – one small, the other smaller. Hard, heavy objects – books, emergency food rations – go in the panniers, cushioned with clothes for Juana’s sake. My Himalayan flea-bag (one and a quarter pounds) and our high-altitude tent (two and a half pounds including poles and pegs) go in my Diana-bag with the two space-blankets. Rachel’s flea-bag (two pounds) provides the padding for one pannier and her Diana-bag holds our high-altitude clothing which is very compact. The panniers fit snugly behind the saddle and my Diana-bag is tied to the crupper iron with a length of nylon clothes-line. Rachel’s Diana-bag, and the heavy iron picket and tethering rope, balance the five-litre water container across the pommel; as the water-level goes down, the picket can be adjusted to keep the balance right. A mug and saucepan hang from each pannier. On my back I carry the day’s food and discarded garments in a light knapsack. My bush-shirt pockets hold notebooks, pens, maps (such as they are), compass, knife, whistle, passports and vital documents. Rachel has her own compass and whistle and we are both carrying prodigious quantities of cash in money-belts. When everything was in place, it seemed there would be no room for Rachel; yet she was able to mount unaided, despite the impedimenta fore and aft, and pronounced herself very comfortable. Then quickly we said our thank-yous and good-byes and to a fusillade of camera-clickings we were away.
Rachel was blushing under her riding-hat. ‘Just as well the media don’t know what we’re up to!’ she muttered. And we shuddered in unison.
I was experiencing that familiar sense of unreality which always marks the first few miles of a trek into the unknown. One can hardly credit that the longed-for moment has arrived; and by the time one has come to believe in it, it has passed …
Already, at 9.15, the sun was hot in a cloudless sky. But soon we were climbing steadily, the land rising between what might here be described as ‘rolling hills’ – i.e., pretty impressive mountains, though not in the ‘savage peak’ category. Rachel marvelled at their colouring: great glowing patches of red and yellow, riven by wide streaks of orange and pink – as a painting this scene would have seemed vulgar, as Andes it was superb. But the drought-damage marred our joy. Beside the narrow stoney road, many hectares of withered young wheat lay on the cracked and desperate earth. Other fields were ploughed for planting; but if no rain comes, why waste seed? These fields had cactus hedges and when Juana noticed gaps on the right she made half-hearted attempts to turn towards home. Federico had advised me to lead her all day, foreseeing that she might take Rachel back to Martin.
When we reached our first plateau, at some 10,500 feet, a cool breeze came frisking over the red-brown dustiness from a massive mountain-range far ahead – a sheer wall (it seemed) of purple-gold-brown rock, rearing towards the deep blue sky. A few clouds were poised along its rough crest and we willed them to bring rain.
From the plateau we were overlooking a jumble of deep valleys, some blessed with vivid strips of green, marking the survival of streams. On steep slopes, far above the valley floors, hamlets of adobe hovels merged into their red-brown background. A few were thatched with sword cactus, most had red tiles bought at the nearest market and carried home on burros. We overtook one such caravan, driven by two barefooted campesino women who giggled nervously in response to our greeting.
Passing through a larger-than-usual pueblo in the early afternoon we saw a sheaf of desiccated maize stalks for sale. While Juana munched we drank beer and Inca-Cola, bought in quite a big shop from a polite but distant mestizo. His long shelves were ominously bare: salt, sugar, rice, macaroni, lavatory paper (unexpectedly!) but not much of anything. I mopped up the last of the beer. (Even in Cajamarca, the ‘grandest’ shops are now poorly stocked.) Juana was tethered outside and as we lent on the counter, gulping thirstily, an unkempt campesino couple appeared in the doorway dragging half a sheep’s carcass, still dripping blood. This was duly weighed, and the shop-keepers said, ‘Eighteen kilos’. Whereupon the campesinos erupted furiously, claiming that it was at least twenty kilos. The shop-keeper pointed to the scales needle, the campesinos shook their fists, stamped their feet and shouted. (‘I thought they were meant to be a docile race!’ said Rachel.) Then the shopkeeper shrugged, heaved their rather macabre property off the scales and made to return it to them. They looked at each other, then sulkily at the ground. The shop-keeper gave them a roll of notes and they trotted meekly away without counting them.
We continued down the long, deserted street between a straggle of detached, two-storey adobe houses given dignity by carved wooden balconies. Poverty was in the air, palpable as the dust that rose in the wake of a passing truck. All day we met only three motor vehicles, two buses and a truck; each left us shrouded and coughing. Juana completely ignored these horrors; she is an interesting animal, calm yet very alert.
Soon after, the road ran beneath shattered purple cliffs looking like stacked slates magnified 10,000 times. Here we paused to eat Amelia’s Cordon Bleu sandwiches, which seemed incongruously epicurean in our grubby paws. Then I inspected my left foot and discovered that my Mexican-bought boots are not as good as they look. I had thought I was developing a standard blister, as would be normal – so I ignored the pain. But on removing my boot a torn and blood-soaked sock was revealed, plus a deep hole in my foot; and the errant cobbler’s nail was virtually inaccessible. ‘What are you going to do?’ asked Rachel, sympathetically. I surveyed my choices: I could either lie down and die or proceed according to plan. ‘Don’t ask stupid questions!’ I snapped ungratefully, lacing up the guilty boot. It is at such times that one pays the penalty for travelling lightest; yet the advantages of that policy are greater than the occasional disadvantages.
Within a mile we had spotted our first redura (short-cut), a barely perceptible path across a level sandy plain where a few tall eucalyptus swayed in a gusty wind. Nearby, on our left, rose a sheer semi-circular wall of grey rock; on our right, the mountains were round and brown. Soon we entered a eucalyptus plantation where the young trees grew in rows some ten yards apart. Sheep, goats and a few skeletal cows grazed on sparse clumps of rough grass and scrub. Their herds – two tiny ragged children sitting in the shade of a eucalyptus – stared at us with alarmed eyes from beneath wide-brimmed hats. Next came a mile or so of curiously splintered land, its mini-abysses scattered with strange shrivelled shrubs. Then abruptly we were overlooking a deep, circular, irrigated hollow, containing the new dwellings of a Co-op farm. Turning left and keeping to the high ground, we crossed acres of stubble – the earth feather-light with drought – before negotiating a precipitous, shadowy ravine where Juana warned us of an inexplicable boggy patch. Mules are famed for their quick response to every sort of natural hazard. Remembering Juana’s inadequate lunch, Rachel dismounted for the tough climb back to the road. Then she requested her sweater; it was 4.45 and suddenly cold.
Gradually the road dropped to a sad trickle of a river in a wide bed of pale, sun-bleached stones. Green grass grew on the level bank but we reluctantly decided against camping here; this grazing must at present be precious to someone. Another redura took us up a long, rough brown slope where dead leaves rattled as we pushed through the bushes. (Rachel was walking again.) Back on the road we met a young mestizo couple and asked anxiously where we could buy fodder. The husband leaped over a low stone wall and pulled an armload of wild oats and coarse grass which made it unnecessary to lead Juana; hugging this priceless burden I hastened on and she eagerly followed. A final steep climb, to Matara, slowed us. Here eucalyptus smoke drifting from adobe hovels instantly recalled the Ethiopian highlands – as only a smell can recall a place.
Matara has acquired much graffiti on gable-walls, proclaiming the rights of campesinos and extolling revolution. It was now 6 p.m. and heavy clouds were gathering but we had no faith in them, having observed the same false promise every evening in Cajamarca. In the handsome, oblong plaza we left Juana guzzling, and collecting a crowd of excited, bewildered children, while we entered another large, dark, ill-stocked shop. Mercifully the beer supply is better here. Four young mestizos were drinking chicha and one offered me a taste from his glass. This brew is so much more to my liking than commercial beer that I offered him my bottle in exchange; but he insisted that I must be his guest. The shop-keeper apologised for the expanding tumult of children outside the door – ‘They are curious because tourists don’t come here.’ Lucky Matara! While tethering Juana, Rachel had somehow dropped her shining silver-looking compass on the pavement outside the shop; and when we emerged one little boy shyly stepped forward and handed it to her. If Matara were on the tourist-map, would he have done so?
Juana’s supper was a big worry; nobody in the shop had been able to help. When we consulted three policemen, sitting on a bench outside their station, they immediately sent two youngsters off in different directions. One officer had a round chubby face which he was evidently trying to render more intimidating by the cultivation of a fierce moustache. He laboriously wrote our names in a register, then opened his desk drawer and presented me with two eggs that had been wrapped in a handkerchief for safety. ‘Food to give the señorita,’ he explained, looking anxiously at Rachel – who was sitting outside the window attending to her print-deficiency by reading Watership Down in the fading twilight. Eleven hours is a long time to go bookless …
Darkness comes quickly here; at this altitude one tends to forget how close we are to the equator. Soon the stars were out above the irregular roofs of the substantial yet neglected houses surrounding the plaza. Then the youngsters returned – fodderless. But meanwhile Chubby-face had been thinking and he ordered them to guide us to a large field of failed barley on the edge of the town where Juana is now filling her belly, though not getting the nourishment she requires. As the boys led us through narrow, rough, unlit streets, where only feeble lamp-light glimmered in living-room windows, a brilliant half-moon sailed into view. So my first battle with my own weird knots was by moonlight. We have tethered Juana to a huge fallen cactus trunk: the earth is too loose and dry for the picket to be trustworthy. On today’s showing she is going to make an excellent Third Musketeer, though obviously we must expect minor differences of opinion during the first week or so.
This splendid camp-site is a trifle too bumpy to be described as ‘ideal,’ but one doesn’t expect interior-sprung ground in the Andes. On three sides tall eucalyptus surround us, on the fourth a high, dense cactus hedge hides us from the road. In view of the anti-tent-peg state of the ground we are sleeping under the stars, wrapped in our space-blankets. After a supper of bread and Cajamarca cheese, Rachel was asleep before I had finished my first paragraph.
CAMP OUTSIDE SAN MARCOS. 10 SEPTEMBER
I awoke, puzzled, just before midnight. Was I dreaming? But no – for the first time in fourteen months, rain was falling on the Matara region. Quite heavy rain, too, and it continued for three and a half hours. I hastily pulled books, torches and clothes under our space-blankets, drew Rachel’s space-blanket over her head and curled myself up in a ball. But Rachel is a lively sleeper and it proved impossible to keep her covered. When we rose at 5.45 her flea-bag and husky-suit were sodden. Yet one couldn’t begrudge the thirsty earth its relief.
It was a cloudy, warm morning, the dawn light silver and soft. Less romantic were the town’s powerful shit-smells, drawn out by the rain. Our field, I suspect, is a popular local latrine. As we loaded up, two trucks beyond the hedge were also loading up, with men going to the locally-famous animal-fair held every Sunday at San Marcos; many carried bound sheep and goats, slung over their shoulders.
By 7 we were climbing to a plateau bounded by arid red-brown slopes on which a maze of criss-crossing thread-like paths made a crazy pattern. Several groups of horsemen and a few horsewomen overtook us on their way to San Marcos and greeted us gravely. Juana brayed sociably to the ponies. Rachel was walking, so that her flea-bag and husky suit could be laid across the load and saddle to dry. In a small pueblo, where groups with churns were awaiting the Cajamarca milk-lorry, a young man kindly pointed out a redura down a steep slope of red earth between high red embankments. Then came a grey-brown plain where emaciated sheep grazed on nothing. At its edge we found ourselves staring into an apparently fathomless ravine, long, narrow and vegetation-filled; this Andean landscape is wondrously unpredictable. Suddenly an elderly limping campesino in a frayed poncho appeared like a genie and indicated another redura, half overgrown by green thorny bushes, which hairpinned around the side of the ravine. It then levelled out while taking us onto a bare, boulder-strewn mountain-side where it plunged precipitously to join the road near San Marcos.
Here Juana disgraced herself for the first time and had to be disciplined. This evening Rachel noted in her diary, ‘In one of these patches of dust Juana committed one of the worst sins a horse or mule can commit. When I was on her back she went down on her knees and tried to roll. Luckily I got off in time and Mummy pulled her up before she had time to roll on the rest of the things. Mummy gave her a good walloping and Juana looked most put out’.
Already scores of campesinos were returning from the market, driving burros laden with hand-painted pottery, firewood, roof-tiles and sacks of God-knows-what. Some were leading pigs on strings, their squeals re-echoing from cliff to cliff in the narrow gorge. Others were driving cows or sheep or ponies. A few of the men had striking ‘Inca’ faces: aquiline noses, long bright eyes, delicately-drawn mouths, haughty expressions. Most women were carrying on their backs a bulky load of merchandise, packed around the statutory infant. Each group plodded silently on, eyes downcast, jaws rhythmically masticating coca-wads to blur hunger and fatigue.
On the edge of San Marcos – by Andean standards a biggish town – my questing eye spotted a small, square red flag above a doorway: the sign that a householder sells chicha. A bottle cost ten soles, as compared to seventy for a litre of beer. Sitting on the low parapet of a humpy bridge over a dried-up stream, I emptied the bottle before removing my left boot. ‘Sore?’ suggested Rachel. ‘Bloody!’ I replied literally, displaying a sanguinary sock. ‘You’d better find a cobbler’, said Rachel, ‘otherwise you’ll soon need a blood transfusion.’ So we looked for a cobbler, but unsuccessfully because it was Sunday.
The animal market is held on a wide expanse of beaten earth below road level but as it was now 3.30 most of the fun was over. Yet the surrounding streets remained crowded and Juana was much admired by connoisseurs. ‘We’d better be careful tonight’, said Rachel darkly. In the town centre we had to force our way through the traffic. Instead of motor vehicles, hundreds of horses and cattle were being ridden or led in every direction without benefit of traffic laws. In the main plaza a very small boy was trying to pull a very angry bull in the required direction. The child’s face was puckered with irritation at the animal’s intractability – not white with fear, as would have seemed more natural. We stopped to watch this drama; eventually the child won and disappeared down a side-street, the bull ambling amiably after him. Down another side-street we lunched in a primitive eating-house with long crude trestle-tables and unsteady benches and a huge mud-range in one corner. Ample helpings of rice and beans, and a little tough mutton, cost us 100 soles each.
A mile outside San Marcos, beyond a wide, almost-dry river bed, we found this roadside site where short green grass grows between small unfamiliar trees. The main attraction was a neighbouring field of well-grown alfalfa, some of which we hoped to buy. This ground looked like common land but as we unloaded the owner arrived – a lean, severe mestizo – and forbade us to camp. ‘Show him the Prefect’s chit!’ whispered Rachel. So I did, and all was well. Rachel can be useful on occasions; without her prompting, I would never have produced that vital document. Later, the owner’s charming adolescent son gave Juana such a generous helping of alfalfa that she couldn’t finish it. He indignantly refused payment – ‘You are our brave guests from Ireland!’ This is my chief objection to using chits and letters of introduction; people then feel obliged to subsidise one, which is fine in the First World, where almost everyone is richer than oneself, but to be deprecated in countries like Peru.
As we set up camp a group of friendly little boys gathered to watch and offered to help Rachel groom Juana. Leaving them together, I went to bathe my lacerated foot in the murky remains of the river amongst droves of gigantic tadpoles. On the far side rose a sheer grey cliff, mottled with dark green vegetation. A path ran along its base and I watched colourful lines of campesinos returning from the market, almost all leading pigs of various sizes and hues. Then a solitary woman appeared, wearing a wide, ankle-length red skirt and a bright blue cardigan and leading an enormous bull with eighteen-inch horns and testicles almost to the ground. She was carrying a plastic bag of toffees and looked abstracted and worn; after puberty, most campesinos seem old. Directly opposite me she suddenly paused, helped herself to a toffee – and presented one to the bull. He accepted it gratefully, she scratched him between the horns and they went on their way. I begin to see why these Indians have a reputation for great kindness to animals, a most unusual trait among hardship-driven peasants. Again, like the Tibetans.
Our enjoyment of the sunset was curtailed by swarms of stealthy midges and shrill mosquitoes who recked nothing of insect repellent. Not so long ago, San Marcos was known as the Gold Coast of the Andes and abortive attempts were made to resettle its inhabitants on higher ground.
CAMP IN FIELD BY IRRIGATION CHANNEL. 11 SEPTEMBER
A day of such splendour that this evening I feel drunk on weak coffee.
We were up before 6 – luckily, for an irrigation channel had just been opened to flood our site (hence its green grass) and the camp would soon have been awash. Juana was in a bolshie mood, perhaps suffering from indigestion, but by 7.30 we were climbing through the most fertile land we’ve yet seen. Maize and potatoes flourished on well-irrigated hillsides and sometimes our little path wound through groves of exotic trees and shrubs. As we emerged onto high pastureland we could see, away to the left, vague clouds wisping around a mighty heap of mountains – like square granite blocks. Diminutive sheep were being herded by spinning campesino women, sitting on boulder vantage points with their colourful skirts spread around them – slightly like gnomes on toadstools. A pueblo of neat little houses had – most unusually – a paved main street and a café-bar-restaurant which I thought it seemly to resist at 9.30 a.m. There was much animal traffic – the market was busy – but no trace of motor vehicles. Here we bought our lunch: ten bananas for fifty soles. Expensive by local standards, but we’re far from banana-growing country.
Again up, the breeze becoming cooler, the pastures greener, the sheep more numerous. Looking back, we could see the mountains around Cajamarca and all the intervening wilderness of blue hazed hills and valleys. Soon dark mountains came crowding close on both sides: no more sheep or shepherds. Suddenly we felt very conscious of our smallness – three minute creatures toiling ever upwards. ‘We’re like ants on an elephant’, said Rachel.
All unexpectedly we reached the pass and stood wordless, shocked by the immensity of the grandeur before us. This was the very quintessence of mountain beauty – a boundless glory of heights and depths, of jagged rock peaks far above and curved valley floors far below – of range thrusting up behind range in sublime and eternal disorder. Through crystal air the colours glowed as though all the world were a jewel: green, brown, ochre, navy, gold, purple, silver. Above was the strong blue of the mountain sky and filling our lungs was the keen air of high and desolate places – elixir air, that makes one feel it must be possible to leap from summit to summit. This was a memory forever, an indelible imprint on one’s whole being. I hope Rachel, too, has received it.
No houses or pueblos were visible from the pass but for many miles ahead we could see sections of our red-brown track clinging to precipices. This was not redura territory; such sheer slopes permit no short cuts. The first stage of the descent took us to the edge of a 2,500 foot gorge. Along its sides were cultivated ledges and slopes, and a few hovels crouched at odd angles over staggering drops. The gorge floor was a dense tangle of trees and shrubs and very far above it towered a long purple-grey rock massif. The scale of this landscape is overwhelming.
Our track soon became a path, scarcely two feet wide, that hurtled downwards with a drop of at least 2,000 feet on one side. The surface was of loose dusty earth and round pebbles and here Juana more than atoned for this morning’s misdemeanours. It would have been unwise to lead her so I went ahead and she nimbly followed – never faltering, even on the most vertiginous bends – while Rachel brought up the rear to watch the load. I had mercilessly tightened the girth at the start; on such a gradient the law of gravity can do dreadful things and a slipping load could have been fatal.
