PERU--MAY 2007

  Tarapoto, Peru
Wednesday, February 6, 2008

CONTENTS/LINK TO PHOTOS

PLANNING THIS TRIP

DAY 1 - WICHITA TO LIMA

DAY 2 - LIMA TO CHICLAYO AND BEYOND http://picasaweb.google.com/mkfmick/Day2LimaToChiclayoAndBey ond

DAY 3 - CHACHAPOYAS
http://picasaweb.google.com/mkfmick/Day3Chachapoyas  

DAY 4 - KUELAP
http://picasaweb.google.com/mkfmick/Day4Kuelap

DAY 5 - CHACHAPOYAS TO TARAPOTO
http://picasaweb.google.com/mkfmick/Day5ChachapoyasToTarapot o

DAY 6 - TARAPOTO TO YURIMAGUAS http://picasaweb.google.com/mkfmick/Day6TarapotoToYurimaguas

PLANNING THIS TRIP

This is to be my fifth trip to South America since I began working for the airlines following retirement from the Federal Aviation Administration (FAA). The first trip was to Peru in 2002, primarily to visit the exquisite Inca ruins at Machu Picchu. At the time I knew little of international travel and nothing of South America. That first destination was not so much chosen; rather, it was simply one that my erstwhile traveling companion wanted to visit. I ended up going on the trip solo-as I have every subsequent trip-just me and my miniscule knowledge of the area and the language.

Trips 2, 3 and 4 were each planned based upon the recommendations of travelers met on trips 1, 2 and 3, respectively. On that first trip to Peru I talked with someone who recommended a trip along the southern Chilean coast, cruising the archipelago aboard the MV Magallanes to Patagonia. On an extension of that trip, while aboard a ferry to Tierra del Fuego, I learned of an incredibly cheap and scenic trip across the Andes from northern Chile into Bolivia via 4WD vehicles, an experience that anchored trip 3. Over a beer at an outdoor table in the Bolivian town of Uyuni, a young European lad showed me pictures he had taken in Argentina at Iguazu Falls. Voila! Trip 4 was set. I would visit northern Argentina, the falls, the Jesuit missions, and the friendly, cosmopolitan, inexpensive city of Buenos Aires.

I returned from Argentina last year having enjoyed a splendid natural, cultural, and dining experience. But, unlike the previous trips, I returned with no set destination for future travel.

I gave some thought to a return trip to Italy which Barb and I had visited in 2004. It didn't work out for my prospective traveling companion, a first-year college student, to go with me, so I looked for another destination.

Scotland! Scotland has always sounded great, and even more so as our great friends, the Bo's and Vernon's, would be there as well. The guys will golf at some of the sacred venues of the venerable game, including a coveted tee time at St. Andrews. I'm not so enamored of the game as my pals, certain as I am that an equal measure of humiliation could had at the hands of a skilled dominatrix, and at significantly less expense. I expect that, given the state of the dollar vs. the euro and the relative expense of European vs. South American travel, my total cost for a trip to a Latin destination could be expended in one robust day of travel and golf in Scotland. Also, I think that Barb might one day be talked into a trip to Scotland, and so it can wait. Still, the cold and mist and Scotch whiskey were appealing...
So it's 'no' to Italy and 'no' to Scotland. My thoughts again turned south, this time to the Amazon River. I assumed that a trip to the Amazon meant a trip to Brazil, and that is what I spent a couple of months planning. Like Italy and Scotland before it, Brazil was removed from my list of destinations for this trip. Contributing factors were the following issues-
Brazil requires a visa for U.S. citizens visiting the country Portuguese is the national language, but I've spent the past several years attempting to speak and understand another language, Spanish Most important, though, is that my employer (US Airways) does not have agreements with any airlines flying domestic routes within Brazil. In other words, I'd have to pay retail for any flights beyond the gateway cities of Sao Paulo or Rio de Janeiro One thing I learned through my travel research is that the Amazon River and jungle are not solely Brazilian features. The source of the Amazon is high in the Peruvian Andes, and the river proper is commonly accepted to begin at the confluence of the Ucayali and Maranon Rivers in the Peruvian department (state) of Loreto. And so a return to Peru began to insinuate its way into my thoughts.
I enjoyed Peru and Peruvians on my previous visit, and domestic air travel within the country would be on LAN Airlines which I've utilized on three previous journeys to the continent. (LAN flies under different guises in different countries, e.g., LAN Peru, LAN Chile, etc., and my experience has been one of great service and excellent planes...plus, their travel agreement with US Airways provides me standby travel within Peru for $23 - $28 per flight, not including taxes.) So, for the past several months at least, I've planned a trip back to South America, back to Peru, but to an altogether different region than I had previously visited.
These trips are a great deal of work and a lot of fun to plan, to research the natural and cultural highlights of the areas being visited, to consider the logistics of getting from point A to point B and back. How will I travel? What will I eat? Where will I stay? I'm never really sure what's in store, but each previous trip has been overwhelmingly positive. So will this trip to Peru, I hope.

DAY 1 - WICHITA TO LIMA

The day begins at the Wichita airport where I see midnight come and go on my way to 1.30 a.m. and the end of my last working shift for US Airways before leaving on this trip. Following three hours or so sleep, I'm up at 5 and back to the airport at 6. I make a last minute decision to take AirTran through Atlanta and on to Miami rather than American Airlines through Dallas as previously planned. I soon realize that the AirTran connection won't get me to MIA in time for the 5.30 p.m. flight to Lima, Peru. One shouldn't make last-minute decisions when in a sleep-deprived state.

What to do? Delta could get me from ATL to MIA in time for the 5:30 flight, but what about my bag that was checked from ICT to MIA and is now within the bowels of Atlanta's Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport, suspended somewhere for five hours until the AirTran flight? If I can just retrieve it, I can take Delta to MIA. If I go on Delta to MIA, I can catch the 5.30 p.m. American Airlines flight to Lima. If I catch the 5.30 flight, I can conceivably sleep a few hours before returning to the LIM airport for a flight the following morning. On the other hand, if I don't make the 5.30 departure, anything later will involve an overnight flight and no bed. The preferred scenario of an early flight and a few hours in bed hinges on one thing: retrieving my bag.

There's nothing to do but to go to the AirTran baggage office and throw myself on their mercy. Surprisingly, they took the high road and attempted to find my bag though they certainly didn't have to do that. It takes awhile, more than an hour, but I get my bag back and then can check-in with Delta. There's no problem getting a seat aboard DL598 which has me in MIA more than two hours prior to American's scheduled late afternoon departure to LIM.

The weather is beautiful across the entire southeastern United States. The view is a sightseer's delight as the plane (a B737-800) flies over Miami and eastward over the aqua and indigo waters of the Atlantic, then turns back west to make its low approach over Miami Beach and Miami. We fly over towering hotels and condos, golf courses, sports stadiums, and smaller buildings, a scene that evokes a suggestion of the Caribbean with the terra cotta roofs and paint schemes favoring bright yellows and bold shades of blue.

I entered the MIA airport confident that I'd get on AA917 to LIM. I checked in at international departures, endured yet another TSA conga line, removed my shoes and exposed my holey socks for the third time today, and hied my way to gate C7 an hour prior to departure. There I was informed that the flight was "weight restricted" which means, in short, that the plane might well pull away from the gate with empty seats and would-be passengers left behind due to load considerations.

It's announced that AA917 will leave the gate a half-hour late. Connecting passengers continued running up right to the scheduled departure time and after-each late arrival representing a seat I wouldn't get. A cluster of standby passengers like me stood worrying near the departure gate. The scene became somewhat chaotic. We were all jubilant when we learned that we would get on the flight, reacting much like successful game show contestants picked to "come on down!" We wasted no time boarding the plane (an Airbus 300) and settling in for the 5+-hour flight.

I spent the flight reviewing my Lonely Planet Peru guide and some notes on Spanish language. A desultory meal was served and eaten joylessly. Customs papers were completed and journal notes taken. We proceeded southward, overtaking the Tropic of Capricorn and then the Equator on our way to Lima.

I dozed a bit, contended with my restless legs, wished the flight to be over, and soon enough it was. Customs is negotiated in a matter of minutes. I access an ATM to withdraw Peruvian currency (nueva soles: approx 3.2=$1 USD). It's here that I make an egregious mistake: the ATM is one that retains your card for the duration of the transaction rather than simply requiring a swipe of the card. Well, I'm used to swiping my card, then putting it away without it ever leaving my hand. By the time the transaction was completed, I forgot to retrieve my card and didn't become aware of the fact that I'd left it behind till unloading my pockets at the hotel an hour or more later.

After clearing customs, withdrawing some money, and retrieving my checked bag, it was time to find my ride to the hotel. Suffice to say that the 'Arrivals' area of the Lima airport is frantic. That much I remembered from my previous trip. A crush of family and touts, separated from arriving passengers by steel barricades, vie for attention vocally and with signboards. I had arranged for a taxi to my lodging via the Internet, so was looking among the sea of signs for one that read "Hotel Espana" or "Farrell."

I finally spotted it and met Joseph, a late teen in scruffy clothes. "Wait," he says, "I have to make a call." It turns out that Joseph was an intermediary and he would call the driver who was waiting outside the airport grounds. You should see what drove up! It was a very small, very old, unmarked grey sedan driven by a middle-aged man. At this point I am equal parts wary and weary. Hotel Espana was very responsive in their e-mails and they had arranged this ride, I guess. Surely no one else in Lima would be able to put my name on a signboard.

The driver, Victor-who was Joseph's father as well-put my bag in the trunk and invited me to share the front of his cab. Then off we went! It's just before midnight as we head out onto the streets of Lima. I'm reminded of a wreck-of-a-car that Barb and I had back around 1970, an old gray Opel decorated with colorful stick-on flowers. Imagine if that same vehicle had been driven hard during the intervening decades, finally taking the Pan-American Highway to Peru. Then imagine loading into that old wreck and negotiating tonight's route through Lima, past gaping potholes, through trash-strewn streets, encountering aggressive drivers, horns honking all the while. I wasn't sure where we were going, but I hoped it was to the Hotel Espana.

Victor and I had a nice conversation in broken Spanish, and we did end up at the hotel. Housed in what was probably once a grand home, it is now several floors of small rooms, some with private baths and some with shared. I take a small (less than 100 sq ft) room with shared bath for 24 soles (less than $8), breakfast included.
Though somewhat rundown, and certainly not in a great area of Lima, the place was very clean. One interesting feature of the hotel was a glass case in the lobby inexplicably displaying a number of human skulls. I'm left to ponder their significance.

DAY 2 - LIMA TO CHICLAYO AND BEYOND

I'm sleeping soundly when the alarm rings at 6 a.m. following five hours on the short bed in the ultra-small room at Hotel Espana.  I have to catch an 8:50 a.m. flight and so must be outside the hotel to catch a taxi by 6:30. Victor-my driver from last night-is still on the job this morning. He greets me warmly and puts me in one of the taxis queued up on the street.

There is no real problem getting a seat on LAN Peru flight 284 to Trujillo which is about an hour's flight north of Lima. I hire a young taxi driver, Christian, and establish a rate for the drive from the airport to the Movil Tours bus station-where I need to buy a ticket for the late afternoon departure to Chachapoyas-and on to the central Plaza de Armas.

Christian wastes no time convincing me that I should hire him and his taxi to show me some of his beautiful city. I agree to pay him $30 USD for what turns out to be about three hours' time and considerable travel. He'd take me to as many places as I'd pay to see, but most of my time was spent at the Moche ruins called Huacas del Sol y de la Luna (Temples of the Sun and of the Moon).
 
    
 
Temple of the Sun (left); Inside Temple of the Moon (above)

The Moche culture occupied northern coastal Peru for more than a millennium (200 BC - 850 AD), pre-dating the Incas by centuries. The Moche built the Huacas del Sol y de la Luna more than 1,500 years ago, and time has eroded their former glory. These huacas (temples) are pyramidal in shape and look like nothing more than another arid hill from a distance. Approach one, though, and you see that the 'hill' is actually constructed of adobe blocks, an estimated 140 million of them. Enter the temple and you see altars and graves and ornate friezes revealed by ongoing archeological efforts.

Visiting this site and learning a little about the Moche was completely unplanned and was simply the result of having a bit of free time between arriving in Trujillo by plane (10 a.m.) and departing by bus (4 p.m.). After visiting the site I had Christian drop me at the Plaza de Armas, Trujillo's centro area, for the balance of my time in the city.

I managed to send a brief e-mail home advising of my well-being, purchased some more Peruvian currency (primarily to see if I had another card that would work for that purpose, which I did), and ate a solid meal of local fare (avocado salad, chicken and rice, and lemon pie). By now it is after 3 o'clock and time to get a taxi to the bus terminal to catch the 4 o'clock departure.
 







La Catedral from the Plaza de Armas, Trujillo, Peru
Movil Tours is a highly regarded bus company operating widely within Peru. Mind you, there are dozens of other bus companies and several of these are also recommended in travel books and at online travel sites. Anyway, Movil operates service from Trujillo to Chachapoyas aboard rather luxurious coaches. At $20 USD it's somewhat expensive by Peruvian standards, but that fare purchases a 13-hour overnight journey of more than 300 miles and a small snack. Moreover, I have little concern that a Movil bus will be subject to a late-night roadblock and heist. 




From the Plaza de Armas, Trujillo, Peru
Northern coastal Peru is one of the most arid regions on the planet. Certain areas may go years between measurable rainfall events. Certainly the first 100 miles from Trujillo to Chiclayo traverses unremittingly sere landscape. We take Highway 1N which runs mostly parallel to the Pacific coastline through a number of austere small towns. Bare sand stretches into the distance, virtually unbroken by any vegetation, certainly not by any trees.

It gets dark here earlier than I expected due, I suppose, to the absence of daylight savings time, the fact that it's late fall in the southern hemisphere, and our proximity to the Equator (Chiclayo is at approximately 7 degrees south latitude). The bus arrives in Chiclayo, about 120 miles from Trujillo, before 7 p.m. and we won't be leaving for another hour. That leaves just enough time to find Internet service and check my messages. While I'm doing this I run into one of the other bus passengers whom I had said hello to, but little else, on the ride from Trujillo. I'll learn later that her name is Katty.

My seat assignment for the entire Movil Tours bus trip was actually adjacent to Katty, but after leaving Trujillo I excused myself to another seat since whole rows of the bus were empty. After the stopover in Chiclayo, though, we sat together and talked for the first few hours of the trip. I had only heard Katty say a few words and I thought she was American, or from another English-speaking country. It turns out she is from Ulm, Germany, and nearly perfect English is just one of her languages. Katty (short for Katharina which she says is nearly unpronounceable for Spanish speakers) is young, traveling solo, and has been in South America since the first of the year.

An idiotic Adam Sandler movie plays on the bus monitors, a baby cries seemingly endlessly, and when the patron in front of me reclines his seat into my lap-nearly pinning me to my seat like an insect to a specimen board-I excuse myself and find an empty row for the remainder of the trip. A half-dose of Ambien has me sleeping soundly as the day ends somewhere east and north of Chiclayo, Peru.

DAY 3 - CHACHAPOYAS

I wake several times during the night as the Movil Tours luxury coach lurches slowly-at times at a walking pace-along unpaved roadways towards Chachapoyas. My GPS tracks the route, always giving an indication of how much farther there is yet to travel. Mostly I sleep, but once I wake to find the bus proceeding gingerly, the driver busily wiping condensation from the inside of the windshield so he can make out the treacherous roadway, and out of my window on the right-hand side of the bus I can see only the roaring rapids of Rio Utcubamba ghostly visible in the pre-dawn darkness. The river is probably not more than 10 feet (3+ meters) below the roadway, and try as I might I cannot make out anything but empty space between the bus and the river itself.

It's not long before we pull into the bus station in Chachapoyas at about 6 a.m. Katty and I join up again to make our way through the streets of the awakening city. We see a dead dog at the edge of a street. In the space of 12 hours I saw a total of three such unfortunate animals in the streets of Chachapoyas.

We each have our guide books and we go to investigate a couple of hostels on the Plaza de Armas. Katty can speak rather fluent Spanish and is not reticent about finding the rock-bottom cost of a room. A nice private room with bath can be had at Hostal Revash (Grau 517) for 25 soles (about $8 USD). She uses that leverage to great advantage next door at Hotel Plaza (previously the Hostal El Tejado) where we get private rooms with bath for 20 soles (about $6.50 USD). (NOTE: There is no sign outside our lodging that actually names the property. Guide books say that it is now the Hotel Plaza, and that it was formerly the Hostal El Tejado. One thing is certain, though, and that's the address: Grau 534.)

Katty and I want to have something to eat. I suggest a nearby spot (Panificadora San Jose, Ayacucho 816) that could well have a decent breakfast. And how! They have a wide selection of cakes (tortas) and pastries (pasteles) attractively displayed in glass cases. A couple of pastries, fresh squeezed fruit juice (your choice of apple, pineapple, orange, mango, banana) served in a large glass, and a fresh fruit salad (a heaping portion of all the previously mentioned fruits, plus grapes), and a cappuccino will set you back about $3 USD. And the setting is as nice as the menu and prices.

I came to Chachapoyas to go to Kuelap, as did Katty. We decide that she'll look into the various possibilities for a trip to the ruins for tomorrow, and we'll meet up later to discuss our options.

I make a vain attempt to nap, then set out to take care of such business as dropping off some laundry, visiting the tourist information office, and signing onto the Internet to check mail and enter trip notes. All this can be accomplished within a half-block of the Plaza de Armas.
Something quite novel occurred while I sat on a bench on the plaza. A young lady approached me, sat down, and began talking to me in halting English. So far, nothing unusual...

Her name was Maria and her claim to be 23 years old was plausible though she appeared to be a bit older. She was pretty, but seemed kind of sad. Maria was intent on keeping me talking to her. If I mistook her for a merchant of sorts, I'm sorry, but I wasted little time excusing myself and heading across the plaza to my room.

At mid-afternoon I ask Eric at my lodging for possible places to walk. I'm directed to the hills above Chachapoyas. I ask about the safety of walking in the city and am assured that it is safe, unlike, I'm told, Trujillo and Chiclayo where I had blissfully walked just yesterday. I set out through the narrow streets for about 1/4-mile (400 m). As I reached Calle Yanayacu, most streets are unpaved; I take one of these still higher above the city. It's a poor area (barrio) of Chachapoyas, even poorer than the main city itself.

Nothing seemed threatening other than some dogs. They had me wondering about possible rabies treatment procedures that would follow being bitten by an unknown dog. I guess I convinced the perros that I wasn't gonna run from them or in any other way betray my rapidly beating heart. I continued on, taking pictures of the city from the high vantage point. Some young schoolgirls agreed to pose for me and took delight in immediately seeing their image on the camera's display. Then they asked me to take another one, this time with a tiny chick about the size of one of the girl's hands. The hilltop provided a beautiful vista to the west as well. Late afternoon now, I take another route down and back to my lodging.

Chachapoyas from Calle Yanayacu

PHOTOS FROM A WALK ABOVE CHACHAPOYAS
              


 
 


I meet Katty as we'd arranged and have a beer in the hostal's bar/restaurant. She reports on what she has found out about tours to Kuelap. Soon a whirlwind enters the room in the guise of a fast-talking Aussie of Peruvian ancestry. He'd just arrived with his father and, by God, he was going to put together a tour group on the spot to visit Kuelap tomorrow. Bruce is traveling with his equally good-natured-but less ebullient-father, Javier, who emigrated from Peru to Australia before his son was born.

Nothing would do but for Katty and I to join the father-son team who had already enlisted a Swiss couple for the tour. In the back of the bar were two young men who had also been on the bus from Trujillo to Chachapoyas. Andy (intense, swarthy, born in Ethiopia of an American military man and an Ethiopian woman) and Isaac (rail thin, goateed, a son of hippie parents who lived at least some of his life, like me, in Missoula, Montana) soon signed-up as well for tomorrow's tour to Kuelap.

That settled, Katty and I walked several blocks to a restaurant (La Tushpa; Ortiz Arrieta 753) recommended for its parilla-style (i.e., grilled over glowing wood embers) meats. La Tushpa is upscale, lively, and serves delicious food. We shared a combination of grilled meats (steak, pork, chicken, and a kabob of grilled pieces of beef heart) served on a sizzling hibachi set in the middle of the table. The entrees were served with individual plates of papas fritas (french fries) and palta (avocado) salad. Add a bottle of wine and the bill is still less than $15 USD.

Perhaps it's time to say a bit more about Katty. I mentioned that she is German, but the dark features bestowed by her half-Croatian heritage could easily lead to her being mistaken for a Peruvian or Argentinean or another Latin nationality. She is a world traveler with a dozen or more-maybe many more-countries stamped in her passport. She recently quit her job in Berlin in order to study dance for a short time in Amsterdam, then to travel. She has been in South America since the first of this year and will have to return home at the end of May. There is more to say that I hope she'll not be too uncomfortable reading...

Just as Shaquille O'Neal must know that he's an extraordinarily big man, so must Katty know that she's an extraordinary beauty. Not movie star looks. No, more than that. You might find comparable beauty on the cover of Vogue or Elle. Possibly. I can tell her parents-who are, incidentally, years younger than me-that their daughter is as nice a person as she is a fetching young woman. It was my great good fortune to spend a portion of my trip in her company.

You know, to expand on the analogy, it's probably not easy being Shaq. On the other hand, I'm certain he's very willing to accept the stares of gawkers as a price of the fame and fortune that is his. Likewise, who would not choose great beauty if offered that option, though it might be burdensome at times? I know that it took awhile before I was comfortable being with Katty. But it got easier and we talked...mostly about travel and the politics of her highly socialized country, and then we walked back to the hostal.

DAY 4 - KUELAP

I met Katty this morning at Panificadora San Jose to reprise yesterday's breakfast. Then we met our group for today's tour to Kuelap: the Swiss couple, Andy and Isaac, Bruce and Javier, Katty, and me. With our driver, our guide, and an additional person catching a lift part way, there were eleven of us in the kombi (small van) when we departed Chachapoyas at 8:30.

Across the valley, the road from Chachapoyas to Kuelap
My GPS shows a distance of only 13.5 miles (about 20 km) from Chachapoyas to Kuelap, but the trip will take more than three hours over tortuous dirt roads. We negotiate stretches under repair following recent mud and/or rock slides, some slides occurring within the hour.

The road clings to one side of a steeply sloping valley. I estimate that at one point the valley may be 2,500 feet (800 m) from bottom to top, and about the same distance from one side to the other.

Our kombi continues on the road, actually getting farther and farther from our destination until we reach the end of one valley and double back, climbing up one slope, and then another, till we reach a parking area about a half-mile (800 m) from Kuelap.

Ah, Kuelap. [Pronounce it KWAY-lawp.] Two months ago I'd never heard of the place. Now I've learned that Kuelap was built by the Chachapoyas (People of the Clouds) between 900-1100 AD, centuries before the development of Inca culture. It was constructed high (about 10,000 feet, or 3,300 meters) on a peak that provided it great defensive attributes. Stone walls 30 feet (10 m) high added another layer of protection for what may have been 2,500 or more residents living in 400 individual structures. There are estimates that more stone was utilized at Kuelap than in Egypt's Great Pyramid.

Fortress-like wall at Kuelap

Machu Picchu is, and always will be, Peru's most visited archeological site. It deserves that status both for the magnificence of its structures and its unparalleled site on an aerie high above Rio Urubamba. Transportation to Machu Picchu is easy. If you can make it to Lourdes, you can probably make it to Machu Picchu. A daily train from Cusco is met by a flotilla of luxury coaches in the small town of Aguas Calientes. The thousands of pilgrims are transported up the steep switchbacks in total comfort. On the other hand, the town of Chachapoyas is not exactly on any major travel routes, and the ride from there to Kuelap is somewhat arduous. Consequently, less than 11,000 people visited Kuelap in all of 2006, a number likely matched at Machu Picchu in three days.
                 
On the grounds at Kuelap
 
 
Not surprisingly, there are few other visitors to Kuelap today. I'm sure there were not 50 visitors altogether for the day. Lush vegetation, including orchids, grows profusely within the site's outer walls. Llamas (and/or alpacas or vicunas) graze and pose willingly. Our young guide provides non-stop information in Spanish. We spend about 2-1/2 hrs in all at Kuelap before returning down the short trail to our kombi.
 
 
(Left) Katty from Ulm, Germany; Rodolfo with the author
It begins to rain. A couple of small trucks with goods and commodities are now parked in the lot, and dozens of indigenous people have come, on foot and horseback, to trade for or purchase essential items.
We start back to Chachapoyas at about 3 p.m., stopping at a small town at the end of a valley. A restaurant there is situated next to a lively mountain stream. Our group had placed orders on the way up, and now we look forward to our meals. Many of us have fresh trucha (trout), potatoes, and salad; with a beer, about $2.50 USD. Only Javier, I think, opted for the Peruvian delicacy, cuy (guinea pig).

Restaurant on the road from Chachapoyas to Kuelap

Dozing, sightseeing, chattering in Spanish, the group makes its way back to Chachapoyas, arriving well after dark at about 7 p.m. I pick up my laundry left yesterday, then spend more than an hour on the Internet.

I'm unspeakably tired now, but after a shower and packing up for tomorrow's departure, I join Katty, Andy and Isaac next door at Hotel Revash at around 10 p.m. The three have made arrangements for another tour in the area tomorrow. In the process, they have met Carlos who manages the hotel, oversee its tours, or both. In any case, he has broken out his guitar and a bottle of licor de mora which is described in a pamphlet as "made from cordial, blackberries, and syrup." Salud!
Carlos is handsome, mid-40s, mustachioed, and seems not to have much concerned himself with adopting any false modesty. He plays exuberantly and well, serenading the four of us with native Peruvian songs for 30 minutes in the otherwise empty restaurant in the back of his hotel.
It's Katty's birthday today. I buy her a pisco sour at a nearby bar, endure some excruciating, dated music videos blaring from the bar monitors, and talk a little. Then we return to the hostal for some blessed sleep.

DAY 5 - CHACHAPOYAS TO TARAPOTO

I get up to have breakfast with Katty, Andy and Isaac at Hotel Revash before they take off for their day tour in the Chachapoyas area. We exchange e-mail addresses, express our pleasure at having met, and say goodbye.

My original itinerary had me getting to Yurimaguas, and perhaps setting off on Rio Huallaga, today. I've known for a couple of days that I'd never make it to Yuri today as it's a minimum of three separate trip segments, taking 12 hours or more, to get there. Instead I'll stop for the night in Tarapoto and go to Yuri tomorrow. Then I'm told, before I even leave Chachapoyas, to relax, the road is closed somewhere up ahead, and I should delay my departure till around 11 a.m.

Time can be a gift, and I use mine to make electronic journal entries via the Internet, and to have one last treat of tortas and cappuccino at Panificadora San Jose.

There seems to be no bus to Pedro Ruiz, a town up the road from Chachapoyas where I'll need to obtain transportation to Tarapoto. Instead, you need to walk a couple of blocks from the central Plaza de Armas and secure unscheduled (but frequent) transportation via taxi or kombi (small van).

I'm walking down towards the transportation area when a woman asks if I'm going to Pedro Ruiz (how could she tell I was a tourist?). She takes my bag and hustles it down the street toward the waiting vehicles, then hands the bag over to a man who throws it into the trunk of a small taxi parked in a garage. I worry that the trip by taxi will cost more than a kombi, but I'm quoted a price of only 12 soles ($4 USD) for the ride.

Six of us start off in the small sedan. The driver insists that I take the front passenger seat for its additional legroom. A tiny, wizened old indigenous man is more or less placed on the console between me and the driver. Horn honking, we're off to Pedro Ruiz at about 11:30 a.m.
 
Along Rio Utcobamba, on the road from Chachapoyas to Pedro Ruiz
The taxi returns down the road I'd come to Chachapoyas on in total darkness two days ago. We follow Rio Utcobamba, a roaring mountain stream, the whole way. Except for one very short stretch that looked unnavigable to me, the river seems an ideal place for an enterprising young person to eke out a living providing whitewater rafting trips to what, no doubt, will be increasing numbers of tourists in the years ahead. (Upstream, on the portion of the river we passed yesterday enroute to Kuelap, the river appeared to be a fun stretch of nearly continuous class II-III rapids.)

The landscape between Chachapoyas and Pedro Ruiz could have been lifted out of the American Southwest. Cactus and century plants are prominent. In places the geology is similar to Navajo sandstone, complete with the dark stains called desert varnish.

The road is abysmal. There is extensive construction work being undertaken. Rock- and mud-slides are attended to. Virtually none of the road is paved at this time. The taxi makes good time, though, passing often and being overtaken infrequently and grudgingly. We careen along, our blaring horn announcing our intentions and, at blind corners, our very presence.

We arrive at Pedro Ruiz at 1 p.m. There's a light rain. Large pools of water and mud occupy much of the unpaved streets on and along the road from Chachapoyas. The taxi stops at a crossroads in town. I ask a man about transportation from here to Tarapoto and he hails one of the ubiquitous, rickshaw-like 3-wheeled motorcars that fill the streets hauling people and goods about the town. I pay the driver one sole (30 cents) to take me to the bus station via this unique mode of transportation.

Pedro Ruiz is situated on busy Highway 5N that connects the large towns of Chiclayo and Tarapoto. I don't have to wait long for a Movil Tour luxury coach that will take me to today's destination at a cost of 30 soles ($10 USD).
 
A street in Pedro Ruiz; outside the bus station (above)

There are no other foreign tourists in the station and I'm sure there's not a single English-speaking person anywhere near here. But out front a middle-aged woman approaches me in halting English. Uh-oh, I think, remembering the encounter on the plaza in Chachapoyas. But Ana is with someone else, Jorge, and they are lawyers (abogados)... Hmmm, maybe "uh-oh" still applies. We chat as best we can about where we're each from. I ask if they are vacationing. "No," Ana says, "we're on a love trip," meaning-I think-that they're on a weekend (fin de semana) getaway. I fear that their ardor, on display as soon as they get to their seats, may overtake them before we reach our destination.
Movil Tour buses are nothing if not well staffed. Besides the driver, there are the attendants, one male and one female. Barf bags are quietly distributed, available just as on an airplane. It doesn't take long for me to overcome my skepticism regarding the necessity of the bags. I was able to witness, up close and personal, just why the bags are provided.

A young girl of about 20 seated next to me wastes no time in throwing up into her bag, my bag, and additional bags provided by the attendant. It seems impossible that she could contain such a volume of stomach contents. The poor thing threw up a dozen times if she threw up once. The suggestion of nausea may be contagious and I briefly considered asking for my own bag. I'm reminded of a Greyhound trip long ago from Missoula to Miles City, Montana. I was the active participant on that trip, exorcising tequila-induced demons from the previous night's revelry with friends.

The bus stops at 5:30 p.m. at Nuevo Cajamarca, the first stop since departing from Pedro Ruiz three hours ago. Our route has taken us over low ranges of hills and through mostly densely vegetated landscape. We depart the station at twilight after a short stop. It has taken several hours to accomplish, but I believe my seat partner has run out of stomach contents to hurl. She seems content to take a more passive role for the remainder of the trip. One can hope.

Proving me wrong yet again, the young lady reaches deep down and finds the resources to retch productively one last time. If travel did that to me, I'd never leave home!

I talk just a bit with a couple of young men across the aisle. I had heard one of them speak the word "Oklahoma" a couple of times, and I used that as an opening, telling him I was from Kansas (cerca de Oklahoma). I believe, if I understood correctly, that he has a brother working in Tulsa.

The bus arrives in Tarapoto at 8 p.m., about 5-1/2 hours from Pedro Ruiz. As I get off the bus, one of the young men I spoke to asks if I will need a hotel tonight, which I do. He recommends one and, before my feet hit the ground I'm being introduced to a motocar  driver who will take me to centro Tarapoto, about two miles (3 km) from the bus station.

It's just plain fun to ride the motocars! The streets are absolutely filled with them. I'm transported to a favored place of my driver where I'm checking-in at Hotel la Mansion (Jr. Maynas 280, Tarapoto) before 8:30. The private room is both large and clean, has no air conditioning but it does have a fan that emits enough decibels to obscure road noise from the busy street just outside my window.

I take a quick shower and walk to the nearby Plaza de Armas. Real Grill (Moyobamba 131), a recommended eatery, is right on the plaza. I take an outside table and order large. An endless procession of small motorbikes passes noisily by, some carrying three or even four people. It's Saturday night, the weather is fine, and Tarapotans are out in great numbers to enjoy the evening.

I'm tired and waste little time at an Internet site before returning to Hotel la Mansion and bed.

DAY 6 - TARAPOTO TO YURIMAGUAS

There is a very nice dining area overlooking the swimming pool in the courtyard just outside my door at Hotel la Mansion. No one else is eating, but they're happy to prepare breakfast to order. My meals here in Tarapoto, last night and this morning, have been good, but both restaurants have served awful pan reminiscent of Wonder Bread.

I get on the Internet at a second-floor location right by the Plaza de Armas. It's a beautiful morning. People are dressed for church, located in an unremarkable structure adjacent to the plaza. The sounds of a military band playing on the plaza fill the air for about 15 minutes.

Motocar traffic in Tarapoto
I approach the driver of one of the motocars, asking about picking up my bag at the hotel and taking me someplace where I can get a ride to Yurimaguas. The motocars are such fun that I hate to see the ride end at an empresa (transportation office) where well-worn sedans leave regularly with their loads of passengers and freight. I have to wait awhile before we leave, but the time affords a great opportunity to observe life in this poor barrio of Tarapoto.
 
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A Digression
I've found the Peruvian people to be friendly and photogenic. In the south and east of the country, around Cusco, many people dressed in native garb and led animals in order to earn a small amount of money to be photographed. The Peruvians I encountered in the north and east of the country were altogether different. They would often ask me to photograph them, but not to earn a propina.
While killing time waiting for my ride to Yurimaguas I had quite a Tower of Babel-sort of misunderstanding. An old man motioned me to come over and photograph his family and him. I was more than happy to do that, of course. Each of us was waiting for our rides to take us out of Tarapoto.

When I was done taking pictures, I turned to leave. The old man said something about dineros (money). Uh-oh, I thought I had been scammed into paying him something in order to photograph the family. I reached into my pocket for some coins; at the same time the old man was pulling coins from his own pocket in order to, I thought, make change for me. It took a moment for us to understand that each of us was expecting to pay the other-me for the privilege of photographing his family, him to be photographed. Go figure!
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I was told that we would depart at noon, but as we approach that time it seems like it will cost me an additional amount to leave since the taxi is not yet filled. I need someone with greater Spanish skills and moxie to make sure I don't get ripped off, but the total fare is 50 soles (up from the previously quoted 30 soles), approximately $16 USD, for what turns out to be the ride of my life.
 
My GPS calculates the straight-line distance from Tarapoto to Yurimaguas as about 47 miles (75 km). It took us a good hour-and-a-half to reduce the distance to 40 miles (64 km). The first 25 road miles from Tarapoto are beyond description, but I'll try.

My chofer (driver), Marcello, does not so much drive the little sedan; instead, he simply launches his vehicle onto the road which is heavily rutted even inside the barrio from which we departed. The road conditions soon deteriorate.
 
A world-class slalom skier would never make it down the hill if he worried about each and every difficulty he might encounter while negotiating his run. And that's why I can't ski black diamond slopes...I do worry about such difficulties. Not Marcello, though! Marcello may be the Franz Klammer of chofers. Never mind that the road clings to the edge of jungle mountainsides, that its composition varies from dirt to water-filled holes to exposed rocks the size of prize boars: he just points that car at his course like a downhill skier and lets it rip!
 
It feels like were going 70 mph (115 kmh), but the GPS says we're only going half that rate. We dodge ruts and rocks, passing anything in our way, virtually throwing ourselves into four-wheel slides at the frequent curves like Steve McQueen. Unfortunately, our vehicle is a bucket of rust and bolts that you'd not wager would make it five miles on such a road.
 
You could choose to be terrified, but I'm exhilirated by the experience and the lush landscape surrounding us. At one point we come to a complete stop. A tractor-trailer is stuck in soft sand and mud and traffic cannot pass in either direction. This clearly does not set well with Marcello, but what can you do? He does seriously consider trying to get past the blockage by taking a clearly impossible track, but an inkling of judgment-or possibly conscience-prevents it.

The semi cannot proceed uphill, but it can back downhill from its stuck position. It does this once, tries again to go uphill, gets stuck again, then backs downhill once more. Marcello has seen enough. When he has the barest clearance between our vehicle and the big truck, he accelerates past it and through the 300-foot (100 m) long stretch of mud and sand.
 
 
On the road from Tarapoto to Yurimaguas: (left) Marcello, my chofer; (above) an obstacle delays our progress
On we go. There are a number of small settlements along the way. Coffee beans, I think, dry on mats in front of some of the houses. Many of the homes are thatched, many raised six or eight feet (2 to 3 m) above the ground on stilts.
 
A couple times when we cross a running stream, Marcello stops so we can scoop up water in our hands and splash our arms and face to cool ourselves off. One time he walked around the car and, ominously I thought, splashed water on each of the tires, perhaps blessing them, perhaps cooling them, neither of which I found particularly comforting.
 
Once stopped, starting the engine again is no sure thing. More than once we had to get rolling to jump start the little car, kind of like the VW van in the movie "Little Miss Sunshine."

Marcello has taken to driving with his head outside the window, seemingly listening intently to his car...for what? We stop again and he finds a sheet metal screw somewhere on the floor, removes a screwdriver from a bound set of old tools, and secures something (the hood? a headlight?).

An abandoned bus sits beside the road like a gutted game animal, wheels and axles askew.

In an hour-and-a-half we haven't made 25 road miles (40 km), nor cut even seven miles (11 km) off the straight line distance to Yurimaguas. It's about at this point that I begin to think that Marcello is seriously sleepy. Maybe that's why his head is out the window. Maybe that's why he splashes his face with water.

Once we've gone about 1/3 the total miles from Tarapoto to Yurimaguas, the road improves drastically. It is now a fine asphalt highway (autopista), curbed and with drainage, even striped. (Talk about the triumph of hope over experience!) We come out of the jungle hills, descending in switchbacks and onto a mostly flat plain for the last 30 road miles (48 km) into Yurimaguas, the exotic jumping off point for river travel downstream, all the way to the Atlantic if you want.
 
Marcello bids me 'adios' at the edge of town around 3 p.m., settles me into a motocar for the ride to centro Yurimaguas and the nearby Hostal El Naranjo (Arica 318, Yurimaguas). I take a look and quickly agree to take the nice, clean single room with private bath (and hot water!).

After a quick shower, I hail a motocar to take me to the river where I'll look for a ride downstream to Lagunas. (Today is Sunday-the one day with no departures downstream from Yurimaguas-so I lose another day from my planned itinerary.) I want to take a boat operated by the Eduardo line; my driver takes me to the puerto where the Eduardo III is tied up just upstream from the smaller river's confluence with Rio Huallaga. A middle-aged tout, Cesar, immediately meets the motocar and takes my bag before I can get out and pay the driver the one- or two-sole fare (30-60 cents USD).
 

Cesar the Tout toasting his good fortune
I'm with Cesar for the next two hours. He shows me the boat and its accommodations. I run into some French travelers that my tour group had encountered up at Kuelap a couple of days ago. They remembered me from there and were very friendly. I decided to join them tomorrow at their location on the upper deck of the Eduardo III. I would string my hammock up with theirs; they could help keep an eye on my things when I had to be away from them.

Cesar showed me the cabins which, though they afforded a bit of security (they could be locked), were airless compartments available at extra cost. Stringing a hammock on the open (but covered) deck, though, is the classic mode for travel in this region.

Cesar leads me to a small store (tienda) to purchase a hammock, then next door to a great, open-air, thatched bar/restaurant located on the river not 100 feet (30 m) from the boat that I'll take tomorrow. I buy a couple of beers for the two of us, then try to take my leave of him. He sticks with me back to centro, taking me down to another embarkation point for river travel and trade on Rio Huallaga.

It's getting a little dark for pictures, but I try for some anyway. The port area is picturesque but squalid. Signs post departures for all manner of boats plying the river. A huge boar is being unloaded, squealing hideously until finally being dislodged from the little boat on which it had been transported and into the water near shore. It was then led off quietly by its owner. Kids are playing. Nearly everyone looks at me, into my eyes, and I don't recall an unfriendly look anywhere.

Evening on Rio Huallaga, Yurimaguas
It's nearly dark. I finally convince Cesar that I want to walk back to centro and my hostal by myself. Eduardo III had a sign posted that it would depart ('sale') at 1 p.m tomorrow. Cesar says that he will meet me at Hostal El Naranjo at 2 p.m. (Clearly he knows something that I don't about posted departure times.) He will settle me onboard the boat then. He has actually taken my hammock and supposedly will have it strung up near my French friends before I board tomorrow afternoon.

I'm not sure that I've egregiously overpaid for anything-beer or hammock-while in the company of Cesar. Nevertheless, I talk to a motocar chofer who advises me to be wary (cuidadoso) of him. I check my daypack, which he carried for a bit, but don't believe that anything is missing. I will ask about him tomorrow. Assuming that nothing of value is lost, and that I paid nothing more than high retail for any items purchased in his company, the two hours spent with him certainly facilitated my getting situated in Yurimaguas.

I stop off at a chifa restaurant near the plaza for Chinese food, find an Internet site, and then go back to my hostal, turn on the fan, and try to get some sleep.
 
NOTE: DUE TO LIMITATIONS ON THE SIZE OF POSTED FILES, THIS NARRATIVE IS CONTINUED ON THE BLOG: PERU 2007 DAYS 7 - 12