long and winding.....

I had a nice skype talk with Carson yesterday, albeit one sided.  He spent most of the time looking, listening and tilting his head this way and that, trying to figure out why mom was in the box on the desk.  Entirely too cute.

Made the acquaintance of a woman who, with her two kids, lives upriver from town.  I will contact her when I get back to Tarapoto to visit and talk to her about how she found her adjustment to life in Peru after moving here a few years ago. 

Cindy is trying to talk me into buying land in Lamas, which is about 20 minutes from Tarapoto.  She claims it is cooler than town because it is about 400 meters higher in altitude.  I am not convinced.  Swelter.

Many people here are firm believers in Shamanism, and Cindy is one of them.  We talked about the use of Ayahuasca as a tool for finding guidance in life.  It is mixed with various other plants depending on the type of guidance sought, and is ingested during a meticulous ritual.  Fascinating.   

I glimpsed a large balloon filled celebration and parade for the February Festival celebrations.  Must have been the tail end because when I walked down to the square there was only the trash left as evidence.  There were kids on many street corners tossing water balloons as passer-byers, and more kids tossing buckets of water on the water balloon urchins.  Made for some fun entertainment.  Missed me by a mile.

I had dinner last night with a lovely young Argentinean girl named Anna Laura.  She reminds me of me back when I was young and traveling solo.  We did our best at the English/Spanish divide, and when I told her I am from Vancouver Island her face just lit up and she talked about wishing she could study marine biology there.  Coincidences like this are frequent when I travel. 

Packed, and I had trouble putting everything back in.  Arrange.  Rearrange.  Take it all out and start again.  Left out a change of clothes for the morning, set my trusty little timer and went to bed.  Notice the lack of the word “Sleep”… why is it when you know you have to be up very early in the morning sleep is hard to come by?  I was in that lala land of half asleep at 4am when the IDIOT in the room next door came home.  He and his partner were shouting at each other as they went by my room.  Then they slammed the door next door.  Then one of them came out on the porch to smoke as the other proceeded to bang about in their room.  Our rooms have screened windows, no glass, so I got to share the cigarettes with whomever. 

I tried to rest after that, but with a 6am pickup for the bus terminal it was short and sweet. 

So I was up at dawn and able to see the sunrise.  That is something that doesn’t happen very often.  It was nice sitting outside in the warm air in the quiet of pre-hustle and bustle.  The streets here are generally teeming with motorcycles and mototaxis.  

The mountains were shrouded in an early morning mist.  Enchanting.

Off to the bus station to get a place on the bus.  Last year I was able to buy a ticket a day in advance, but when I went there yesterday I was told that I have to come early and they would tell me at 6:30 if there was room on the 7:00 bus.  So show up I did, and yes, there was a place for me (the computer couldn’t tell her that yesterday afternoon?) so I checked my bag and was on my way.   But first one of the staff came through the bus video taping everyone.  This always freaks me out because it is done so that if the bus crashes it will help identify the passengers.  As if the list of passport or national identity card numbers isn’t enough.

The farmers in the fields had me beat by a mile.  They were already knee deep in the rice fields, some tending, some harvesting, and then there were the ones that were spraying the rice with what I deduce to be a pesticide of some sort.  Probably one that can no longer be used in Canada.  Multi-nationals.  Don’t get me started.

Bananas, plantains, rice, sugarcane.  Huge fields being worked by hand.  Very interesting were the black plastic mounds being unfolded to reveal their contents of harvested rice.  There was a worker opening up the piles, and more kicking the rice around, spreading it out to dry some more.  Barefoot.  And there were dogs walking around on the piles.  Note to self and anyone reading:  remember to always wash your rice before cooking.

There seemed to be a plethora of farm animals chowing down at the side of the road.  I joined them in spirit as I sat in my cushy reclining seat and ate apples and bread, washed down with grapefruit juice.  Yum.   I have actually been pretty fast and loose with the food rules for the last couple of days.  Fresh salads have been added to my diet despite all the warnings of such easily being contaminated.  We’ll see how it goes.

I had a window seat and great view of the valley and surrounding mountains, stripped bare of it’s jungle foliage for farming save for islands and pockets  left in the areas that are too steep to be viable or to delineate property lines.  Imagine what it would have looked like before being cleared.  So much deforestation, but how do you tell someone that they shouldn’t take land to grow food to provide for their families? 

Heading west towards the high mountains my little compass begins to dance to and fro as we hit the winding narrow roads.   The lull of the bus has me nodding off, only to be jerked awake as the bus lurches or the driver hits the brakes.  The many roadside shrines and markers are evidence at just how dangerous this road is. 

And of course it is high rainy season, with plenty of swaths of mountainside laid bare by landslides.  The rivers are high, wide, and flowing fast.  In some areas they roil and rage, and all the waters are brownish pink from the huge concentration of soil that it has eroded on its path, a condition that is exacerbated by the landslides on the steep hills that begin to make up its’ banks along so much of their lengths.

We pass scattered homesteads, in various states of disrepair viewed up against our snooty North American standards.  Constructed one handmade brick at a time, they are covered by thatched, metal or plastic roofs.  In many places they cling to the steep mountainsides.  I can’t imagine being so isolated.  Their occupants going about their family routines, one of which consists of checking for, and picking, lice. 

Oh the memories that brings back.  My kids.  Our lice.  The cleaning, the picking, and ultimately the haircuts… long flowing curly blond locks shorn so that school could be attended.  Their was the “regular” lice, and then there was the “super” chemical resistant lice brought back as a souvenir on one of our Middle East trips.  That one had to be picked daily for weeks until they were gone.  Oh the Joys.

We stop in Moyabamba and then Rioja to pick up passengers to fill the seats on this mega bus.  And a mega bus it is.  When this guy honks you get out of it’s way,  All the little motocars tooting along don’t stand a chance and the drivers wisely move to the very side of the road.  The nice bus driver does not mow any of them down today. 

I watch and wonder at the hard life being lived by those I see as this bus passes them.  It is once again a reminder of just how lucky we are.  The height of luxury we all live in comparison… My windows start to fog, creating a symbolic buffer between their reality and mine. 

While there are some crazy sections of road between Tarapoto and Moyabamba, the really hair raising ones start about an hour west of Rioja.  A wild ride by anyones’ standards, this year looks like a particularly bad one for road degradation and slides, either on to the road, or the road itself giving way.  Mud, rocks and other debris need to be navigated, and newly single laneways need to be traffic controlled.  All this in the pouring rain, accompanied by heavy machinery trying to keep up with Mother Nature.  She seems to be winning at this point…

Up, up, up we go on the rain and cloud shrouded mountain, as my ears pop and my headache starts.  Oh Altitude Sickness, how do I love thee?... 

After several hours of navigation along the roads we hit summit and begin descent into the “cloud forest”  side of the mountains.  My thought that the roads would get better was quickly proven incorrect, there has obviously been a lot of rain this side of the mountains this year too.  Landslides, rockslides and more road repair. 

After an amusing time spent on the bus toilet (did I mention how curvy the roads are?) we finally pulled into Pedro Ruiz, my drop off point.  From here I need to find some form of transportation to Chachapoyas.  Stilted words with the interim motocar driver have me directed to a collectivo depot. 

And it is at this point that I get “gringa’d” one to many times.  I mean both motorcar guys today upped the prices especially for me.  I paid for my collectivo  fare and a half hour later we were still waiting for two more people to join us in order to depart.  The fare was $1.50 per person, so I asked to pay the extra $3.00 so we could get going.  The cashier announces our departure and told everyone the “gringa” had paid the extra fare.  Fine.  Whatever.  I mean it would have been nice if she had referred to me respectfully as Senora, but it was Gringa I got.

We depart, all seats fully paid for, and about three blocks later the driver stops to pick up another passenger who proceeds to pay him his $1.50 fare.  I said nothing.  Then a few blocks after that he stops to pick up yet another passenger, and tells me to step our and let her take the empty seat in the front between the him and me.  So I asked him for my $3.00 back, since he had easily filled the empty seats I had paid for.  He refused, and so did I.  He couldn’t believe it.  He finally stuffed her into the back (god knows how, the seats were all taken) and proceeds to rant and rave as he starts driving.  Just couldn’t believe that I wouldn’t let him fill the seat.  I think the passengers in the back were a little surprised too, although I did explain it from my point of view as best I could. 

Exhausted, queasy and headachy, the ordeal tipped me past “amused”, and I got teary.  So I stared out the window while I tried to get grounded, and no doubt cemented his opinion of  me as a hoity-toity standoffish rude Gringa.

I wanted to come home. 

We arrived in Chachapoyas and I thanked him as he handed me my very heavy bag.  There were no offers of help. 

Lugging my bag 3 blocks to the hostal took some time and rest breaks, but the welcome was warm, and a bed was waiting. 

Unfortunately dinner was not, both vegetarian restaurants are closed.  So it was yoghurt and bread again. 

Tomorrow is soon enough to figure it out.  I have rambled shamelessly today.  Hope your enjoyed it.