I searched for options to avoid the bus trip from Cajamarca
to Chachapoyas. The best alternative was
a 7 hour bus ride back to the coast, a 10 hour wait at the bus terminal and
then the 10 hour bus ride to Chachapoyas from Chiclayo.
Movil Tours has been running buses on the “road to hell”
twice daily for some time now, and ploughing the route years before that on a
less frequent basis. Seeing as they have
not lost a bus yet I figured the odds were in my favour and I bought my tickekt
two days in advance and then sent myself off to enjoy the last two days of my
life (ok, an over dramatization) in the beautiful Cajamarca valley. Lots of cattle in the area, and it’s cheeses
are considered some of the best in the country, so I picked some up as gifts
for Janet and Donna, and enjoyed a few excellent meals.
With very little sleep under my belt (yep, I admit to being
scared) I headed to the depot for a 6 am. departure… After
taking an Imodium. Because of course on
the day I am to take a 13 hour bus ride I have the runs. Hmmm.
The first three hours of the ride took us through pretty
valleys and wound gently to the town of Celendin. Being curious I had Googled the town for
information and it left me with the impression that it was a wee, two horse
town kind of place, so I was surprised when we came over a hill and saw a
relatively large hamlet nestled below. Celendin
possesses the reputation for excellent woven grass hats and chocolate made for
heavenly cups of hot chocolate.
Unfortunately for me the bus stopped for only half an hour and there
were no stores in sight.
Google had also informed me that the road to Celendin from
Cajamarca was easy, and it was… no real scares to be had. However the next 130km will take us through a
pass at 3000 mtrs, down to cross the Utcabuma river at Balsas (980mtrs), back up on the most
dangerous part of the road to cross a pass (3690 mtrs) to reach Leymebamba
(2000 mtrs).
Thus armed I was not particularly taken aback when the road
from Celendin became a single lane ribbon as it climbed upward. Think cross between logging road and goat
track. Here and there the road widened
just enough to allow a vehicle to pass if needed. Zigs and zags. Up and into the clouds and over the pass we
thus went, experiencing the first “no shoulder” fun, typically passing high
altitude farms manned (and womanned) in the fields wearing native dress. Very pretty.
Again I send up thanks that my life does not require the
hard physical labour witnessed, and that I am fortunate enough to have enough
left over to save for my travels.
Back to the road.
There are blogs and travel advisories galore about this road, and as we
proceeded down every one of them was circulating in my brain. The road narrowed, steepened, switchbacked
and the river was very, very, very far away down there… The decent from pass to Balsas is 2500mtrs,
about 150% deeper than descending to the bottom of the Grand
Canyon. Yup… way down. The actual condition of the road this side of
Balsas was dry and in good repair, albeit
narrow, and the areas set aside for passing looked sufficiently wide and stable
enough. Still though, it was a relief that
few vehicles came along.
Now the bus driver may have done this route over and over,
but still he could have slowed down… you know?
I have taken enough busses and taxis to be familiar with the Peruvian
driving style (take no prisoners), but why on such a narrow, high road with
cliff like drops? Does he want all of
his passengers to pee themselves in fright?
Hmmm.
Down at the bottom of the canyon sits Balsas. Blink and you will probably miss it. I almost did.
The climate here is unique, catching and holding the heat of the full
tropical sun. Hot and dry, it is very
green and tropical… lush with banana palms, avocado, orange and other fruit
trees. Well tended and fertile, the
valley is pretty but small… just a blip on the ride. We crossed the river here and I noted that it
was running high and strong from the frequent rains.
Heading on up the eastern slope was almost immediately
different. Leaving behind the dry scrub
of the decent we are headed into the Sierra Tropics. And certainly the higher we got the more
tropical the feel. Humid. Wet.
Slippery. Scary.
This ascent to the pass, and on to Leymebamba, is considered
the dangerous part of the drive. I fully
concur. Yes we made it (obviously) but
it was in no way certain. The road
seemed even more impossibly narrow, and the drops down the sides would ensure
no survivors. I tried to look at the
spectacular vista and not consider the precariousness of our position. It rained.
There were wash outs. Recently
cleared mudslides. Rocks on the
road.
And traffic coming the other way.
You have no idea what scared is until a bus backs up on a
slick high mountain road and moves to the SIDE, making way for a truck (and
car).
We made it to Black
Mud Pass
(aptly named I might add), and by this time we had left the jungle vegetation
and were back into an area of high pampa grass, with not much else growing at
this altitude. There were clouds
though, and you can add that to the list of road dangers… you know, reduced
visibility and all.
The road improved only marginally as we began to descend
through high, tight mountain valleys on the road to Leymebamba. These are the mountains from which births
the Utcubamba river. The town itself is
small, and although I have heard people say they like it, many of us
didn’t. There are ruins, a good stretch
of old Inca road and a nice enough museum, but other than the hummingbird café
I did not enjoy my visit last year and had no intention of getting off the bus
when it stopped in the tiny main plaza.
Having made it safely through the “road from hell” you would
think the balance of the trip would not really bother me. It did.
The next two and a half hour stretch had us bouncing over the severely
rutted and weather worn road, and after almost 11 hours in the bus I thought I
would go crazy. Didn’t help that I had
to pee. Leymebamba was a micro stop, so holding it in was mandatory. I think my eyeballs were floating by the time
we hit the small town of Tingo,
and when the bus stopped to drop people off I made a beeline to the bus driver
and more or less begged for a time out.
Closest toilet was at the police station, clean, toilet paper provided
and all.
I don’t think I would have made it all the way to
Chachapoyas…
Altitude 2400 meters above sea level, which made it up,
down, up, down, up. My body didn’t know
just what to do this that.
A cab back to my home away from home, the Hostal Amazonas…
hello, hello, kisses, key and off for pizza.
A short walk to stretch out my legs and then the bliss of a comfy bed
and warm blankets.
What a trip. Never to
be repeated.
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