JIMBORED FINDS ADVENTURE DEEP IN THE PERUVIAN ANDES – 2012 – PARTII

This next adventure has been waiting it’s turn for years. It might be the greatest of all our treks into the Peruvian Andes. It starts in Lima where we had just had a whirlwind two days looking around the city and visiting with friends. Deysi, of course, had everything planned meticulously. But before heading down south to Arequipa, she had a little side trip that she wanted to take. Ol’ JimboRed, as usual, was along for the ride, and trying my best to stay out of trouble. Some might say, trouble was my middle name, and was never far from me. Even at my advanced age, I could still manage to rile Deysi up, without hardly trying. After a couple of days in Lima, she hauled my butt to the bus depot. There we boarded a big air-conditioned luxury bus and embarked to the south.

Our destination on this leg of our trip, was to the centre of Peru at the north end of the Atacama Desert. The city was called Ica, and it was there, that, Deysi’s younger sister Lene lived. This was our first time to the city of Ica. Although, a dozen years before, we had passed near here, briefly, accompanied by our friends C and The Kiwi. The city is colonial and of moderate size. It was, approximately, 300,000 people, when we arrived in 2012. Ron found us a wonderful hotel called Las Dunas, for our stay. Ron, as she had so kindly done, many times in our travels, paid for our hotel, for my birthday. Hell, there was no way JimboRed could have stayed in such luxury. I will write more about our time in Ica, later, but first I will jump straight into the adventure that awaited us.

On the first morning in Ica, Deysi awoke me and said, “get up, get ready, we are going to see some real crap now”! She continued, “we are going to hire a car and driver, and plunge into the Andes, in search of my ancestors”. I’m like, “hell yeah, I’m in!” I could not wait. Over the years we had mostly been around relatives on her father’s side. This time we were going to seek out those on her mother’s side. I was like a dervish, gathering up camera, laptop, cash, water, a hat. In five minutes I was ready to rock. Deysi is like, “go outside and wait for Lene and the car.” “Try not to get into any trouble, DON’T SMOKE, you hear me“! An hour or so later, we were finally, loaded and ready to go. Geezus.

For this trip we were accompanied by Lene and her daughter (our niece) Mari. At this time she was, maybe 17, and full of adventure. She did not have a problem, spending her day with the old folks. Eventually we got everyone in the 4-wheel drive, 4 passenger pickup truck. We headed south out of Ica, down the Pan American Highway towards the Nazca lines on the desert. Somewhere just short of “the lines” at a place called Palpa, we made a sharp left and headed towards a towering wall of the Andes. As always my heart was pumping. I was once again, returning to my favorite part of the world. To a place where my life seemed to have re-started, those many years ago. All thoughts of being a “non-traveller” had left. I was ready to trek!

I remember stopping at a small store, and buying a bag full of fresh baked buns for breakfast. Then, amazingly, as we crossed the small city of Palpa, very early one fine summer morning, Lene tells the driver to stop! We had encountered a mid thirties gentleman all dressed up in suit and tie. He was walking along the street, when Lene opened her door and called to him. She hops out and puts this successful looking businessman in a fierce hug. They laugh and smile and pat each other’s backs. She calls Deysi over and introduces her to a cousin. I was impressed. Here, somewhere, in the middle of Peru, at a random city, these girls could root out family within minutes.

Turns out this guy was a judge in the local courts, with authority over Palpa. Additionally his reach extended all the way to Deysi’s childhood place, high in the Andes. He was very happy to see his cousins and soon they were deep into family history. He was raised in Deysi’s birthplace, the grandson, of a brother to Deysi’s mother. After finishing his schooling he settled in the town of Palpa. Not very far from where he was raised. The cousin provided directions on how to get to the town of Deysi’s, mother’s, family. He offered his help with anything we might need, or with anything we might encounter during our journey. He was very gracious, and I believe, every bit as happy to see his cousins, as they were to see him.

After a short conversation we all piled back into the 4-wheel, and once again commenced our journey into the Andes. Not far outside of town, we entered a valley that followed a winding river and wandered thru lush vegetation. Higher up, the mountains that, now, started to enclose us, were barren, with sparse, stunted vegetation. The contrast of the higher arid, barren mountain slopes, with the lush vegetation of the valley was dramatic. On the level of the roadway, the small farms were filled with tropical fruits. The road before us was a typical Andean road. It was dusty, narrow, full of potholes, and had virtually no shoulders. Even at the outset, you could see that passing would be a challenge.

The mood was of excitement, the girls were in a loud Peruvian conversation, laughing and giggling as we drove. Ol’ JimboRed was engrossed with the winding road and the scenery. I remember, vividly, stopping while Deysi plucked a fresh mango from one of the roadside orchards. Papaya grew on trees within our reach. Tuna (T U N A) crops (the cactus fruit, not the fish) were laid out before us. To me it was like entering into the unknown. Undoubtably one of the best starts to a day, in any, of my retirement years to date. And then, unfolding in front of us, Deysi’s dream come true. Laid out on the hillsides before us, and sticking out like outhouses on a barren mountain. Were just that.

Unquestionably, Deysi had never met a toilet that she didn’t like. She now felt as if she had gone to heaven surrounded by hundreds of toilets to choose from. Apparently the Peruvian Government had decided to construct a toilet, for each and every dwelling throughout this part of the Andes. Literally, hundreds of them! Man, they dotted the landscape. They were a stark contrast to the otherwise barren Andes. On top of the quantity, which was overwhelming, each and every one of them was build with bright blue, plastic panels. It didn’t take long before Deysi had the driver stop so she could try one out! Now that was something I never considered, as a can’t miss sight, on our vacations. Oh well, beauty is in the eye of the beholder, I guess.

You are probably wondering how shallow our life had become, to be brought down to the level of photographing toilets in the Andes. But soon we were, once again, lulled by the rhythm of our vehicle, grinding around endless turns and bumping along thru potholes in the road. We had air conditioning, lively chatter, a beautiful Andean day, and exploration on our minds. Looking thru our memories of this time, I now realize that during this little, one day, side trip, I managed to take 583 photos. Over the years I have looked thru them often. Sometimes with a bit of nostalgia, but more often with a sense of adventure, as I reminisce.

On this particular day in January 2012, I must say that the road into our destination was particularly jammed with traffic. Many the time we had to stop and let a herd of cattle cross, or alternately a herd of goats. Often we had to follow them until they decided to cross over into a field, where they were to graze on that particular day. Each time we met a local and their herd, it would cause ol’ JimboRed to furiously shoot away on his camera. From time to time we passed small Andean villages, with their inevitable Catholic Church overseeing all. I had long ago quit complaining about the thousands of churches, after Desyi explained that this was all these villagers had. Apparently the church was the social, cultural, and religious hub of their life. Ok, I can buy that.

Thus far we have covered about a quarter of the way to Deysi’s birthplace. However, I have covered enough paper up to now, to completely bore myself. Let’s just say, that I have been trying to set the tone of our trip. So, I will move on, after one last memory of our ride towards the sacred town of Laramate. At one point we came around a corner, and captured my favorite cowboy picture of all time. There sat in front of us the oldest, toughest, leanest, cowgirl that I had ever seen. Just looking at her, you knew, that if you wanted an ass whooping that you couldn’t even get in a biker bar, then you just needed to go over, and insult this lady.

All along this drive, we were kind of paralleling the valley that Deysi’s ancestors came from. We were separated by a range of mountains, and waiting to arrive at the point where we went up and over the mountain range and into the Sacred Valley of Laramate. We had been gradually climbing up into the Andes for the past hour, and at last we reached the place where we would leave this road, and join another, for the rest of our trip. Without knowing, we had climbed to 7500 feet in altitude. The place was named Llauta. It was quite amusing, really. Llauta had only three or four streets. However, we did manage to get lost and unable to find the way out.

We circled around the inside of the village, a couple of times, when Desyi decided to give up and ask for help. She found an elderly, reasonably intelligent looking local, whom she asked for direction. The question was how did we get to Laramate from where we were and how far was it? This guy thought for a minute and then extended his arm out. At arms length he sighted between two of his fingers. After a bit of adjustment, he pointed up to a high mountain on the outskirts of town. He now made his official pronouncement. With all seriousness, he said, “it’s up that way”, and sighting thru his fingers, now spread about two inches apart, he said, “it’s about that far”. And then showed Deysi the gap between his two fingers.

I mean what could you possibly say to that. There was nothing further that we were going to get from this guy. He had done his job. We just headed in the direction he pointed, each of us thinking about his profound guidance. We left the valley of Llauta, and immediately started to wind our way up and over a high ridge. If it were, indeed possible, the road was even narrower that the one we had just left. Soon, we had climbed to a respectable altitude of about 11,000 feet. The air was starting to get thin, yet still above us stood another 2000 feet or so before we would reach the summit. We stopped for a photo opportunity, and suddenly the valley we had just traversed looked far away below us.

Finally we reached the top and had our first sighting of Laramate, lying across another valley below us. Incredibly, we were looking down on the place that Deysi had left as a baby, many, many years before. I must admit I was just as excited as her, to finally see the birthplace of her Mom and her ancestors. Now, I would like to add, that we weren’t exactly jumping around and whooping and hollering. The air, that we now fought over, was thin, and we gasped, just, to fill our lungs. It was a National Geographic moment, Ol’ JimboRed had never, in his life, seen such a spectacular sight. I was pumped. The girls were also excited, but somewhat more reserved. Over the years Lene had returned to this place a few times to visit her relatives. Although, for her last visit, she was still a child.

The descent into Laramate seemed as long and as winding as the journey that we had just completed to get this far. Back and forth, mile after mile we crawled our way down, switchback after switchback towards our destination. It was summertime in the Andes, fields were in bloom and the level areas as green as they would ever get. The vegetation was sparse. In some places short, sturdy grass covered the pasture land. Every once in a while we would see a horse, a few Llamas (or Alpacas), mixed with some sheep or goats grazing on the mountain sides. Was this remote? You think?

The approach to Laramate was dotted with small holdings. These farms were laid out at impossible altitudes, and farmed by a race of very hearty farmers. Their’s was an unending fight against the elements, and only then, to eke out a subsistence living. In many ways I envied these people, free from the pressures of modern cities, and free to set their path, to live as they chose. Ol’ Jimbored often thought of how he might have fit into this life, had he indeed been a Peruvian in an earlier time. Finally we arrived at the outskirts of town. Let me say, that, this was not a one hour trip. We had spent the last six hours grunting and grinding along roads that in some places were a little challenging. Each time we encountered a vehicle, we pulled over and negotiated our way past each other.

Laramate at last! Incredibly the place of Deysi’s origin. One of my dreams (and I hope, her’s also) come true. It was like a magical time. I could not wait to get in and see what Deysi’s people were all about. Let me at ’em! In many ways the town of Desyi’s mother was like hundreds of Andean towns we had visited over the years. What none of the others had, however, was that mystical attachment to family and roots, that seemed to permeate the atmosphere of this area. Here at 11,500 feet in the Andes, I had the feeling of returning home. Ol’ JimboRed is at a loss to describe it. Sitting here thinking about it, I believe I may have let a little tear trickle down my cheek. NOT!

At this point I have to stop this memory and split it into two pieces. The reason is, as you all have experienced by now, the whole piece, in one sitting, would have been just too long. However, cutting it into two parts, also has its own problems. That is, the first part (this one) is more of a setup or prelude to the next part, which will be the grand adventure itself. But in order too write about the adventure we were headed for, it was necessary to “set the scene”, “describe the atmosphere” and “let the poetry flow”. I hope in some small measure to have achieved that, and leave you drooling for the next part.

And before I leave, I also want to say, for those of you, like Deysi that used to follow me on Social Media, this article may feel vaguely familiar. Many years ago, and shortly after this trip, I wrote on FB, an article describing, our 2012 adventure to the home of Deysi’s, mother’s, family. And then a couple of years later, I abandoned all Social Media communications, and all my posts turned to vapour. I gave up on Social Media for the sake of my own sanity. It was truly, making me crazy. However, shortly after cutting ties to Social Media, I found that I still felt a need to connect with the outside world. Hence this blog was started, as my tiny voice on the internet. In its own way this blog has kept me sane…… perhaps.