A long weekend and the world lay at our feet: travel out on Wednesday night, return sometime on Sunday. Means of transport: bus, the most cost-efficient, even if you don’t pick the downright dirt cheap options. Unfortunately at the same time the most accident-prone way of travelling, at least in Peru, but we accepted the gamble.
We had planned to go to Tarma in the highlands, where Michael’s cousin’s mother-in-law has a restaurant, and the cousin and husband dispose of a bedroom for staying over. Everything was organised, the necessary phone calls had been made, etc. Come Wednesday afternoon, however, we realised that there might be some literal obstacles to our journeys; the miners on strike had blocked the carretera (road), and as a result it was unlikely that anyone would get through. Having been unable to confirm with our bus company, Michael suggested we go to Huaraz instead, and so in the early evening we rushed off to another bus station to acquire the tickets from Z Bus, home again to pack and avoid a large-scale cockroach invasion in our absence, i.e. dispose of all food not contained in the fridge in one way or another, with 20 minutes to spare.
A quick stop at the pharmacy downstairs to buy aspirin for the altitude, a taxi ride to our original journey provider to be reimbursed, and then another taxi to the station of departure meaning that in the end we were half an hour early.
The station at 9 pm was teeming with travellers taking advantage of the long weekend. Most of the trips last at least 8 hours, some between 14 and 18, so usually you leave in the evening to arrive early the next day. The actual waiting area was crammed with people all watching the only TV screen available intently – one of the football games in the American Cup was shown. In the other hall where the ticket desks of three or four different companies were located, people with less spherical passion loitered, bought snacks from the kiosk, made a last-minute visit to the sanitary facilities and tried to make sense of the departure calls over the loudspeakers. On the floor next to one desk sat three women with an unmistakable pastoral air about them: long hair in braids, plain cardigans and god only knows how many skirts, making them look like Mumin trolls from the waist down. Seated on their plastic bags filled to the brim, they calmly performed what seemed the trips accounts using a calculator.
We had planned to go to Tarma in the highlands, where Michael’s cousin’s mother-in-law has a restaurant, and the cousin and husband dispose of a bedroom for staying over. Everything was organised, the necessary phone calls had been made, etc. Come Wednesday afternoon, however, we realised that there might be some literal obstacles to our journeys; the miners on strike had blocked the carretera (road), and as a result it was unlikely that anyone would get through. Having been unable to confirm with our bus company, Michael suggested we go to Huaraz instead, and so in the early evening we rushed off to another bus station to acquire the tickets from Z Bus, home again to pack and avoid a large-scale cockroach invasion in our absence, i.e. dispose of all food not contained in the fridge in one way or another, with 20 minutes to spare.
A quick stop at the pharmacy downstairs to buy aspirin for the altitude, a taxi ride to our original journey provider to be reimbursed, and then another taxi to the station of departure meaning that in the end we were half an hour early.
The station at 9 pm was teeming with travellers taking advantage of the long weekend. Most of the trips last at least 8 hours, some between 14 and 18, so usually you leave in the evening to arrive early the next day. The actual waiting area was crammed with people all watching the only TV screen available intently – one of the football games in the American Cup was shown. In the other hall where the ticket desks of three or four different companies were located, people with less spherical passion loitered, bought snacks from the kiosk, made a last-minute visit to the sanitary facilities and tried to make sense of the departure calls over the loudspeakers. On the floor next to one desk sat three women with an unmistakable pastoral air about them: long hair in braids, plain cardigans and god only knows how many skirts, making them look like Mumin trolls from the waist down. Seated on their plastic bags filled to the brim, they calmly performed what seemed the trips accounts using a calculator.
Suddenly a 30-something man stormed into the station and deposited something I’d never seen before next to me and Michael. I soon realised that it was the travelling container for hens: fabric bags that looked like document folders with the back facing upward and one peeking/breathing hole at each end. They looked pretty comfortable as such things go, yet one of the hens (or chickens) was very upset and kept stirring inside its bag.
The bus was (of course) delayed because access was blocked by other buses parked closer to the exit gate, but it is the kind of thing I take for granted rather than get annoyed now. I got a ticket for our big backpack which was put away in the storage, and we took up our seats. Soon after, we started our escape from Lima. However, there was one last stop in San Martin de Porres, where a police officer checked our documents and even searched some people (Michael was one of them) briefly for, presumably, weapons. Then the plexi-glass door to the drivers’ seats closed, and we set out northbound on the Panamericana, leaving the bright skyline of Lima behind. Following the steep desert coastline, at times, the road went round a narrow bend and far down below you could see the white foam on the dark waves as they broke over the sand.
The trip, taking place during the dark hours as it did, held little excitement. A film was screened, and then replaced by (too loud) Andean music in the speakers, which gave my dreams a weird note as I drifted in and out of sleep.
Around three hours into the journey, the bus came to a halt in the gravel. On the other side of the road were some low buildings, one of them a kiosk selling chirimoya, oranges, crackers and other necessities. As soon as we realised this was the 5-minute toilet break, we rushed outside. With men relieving themselves as and where they were standing, I joined some ladies behind a low brick wall, our backs to the 3 m tall grass that lined the road now. Then we hurried back into the bus and our blankets.
Sometime later, Michael nudged me and pointed outside. The sky, unlike over Lima, was clear and the full moon shone in all its glory. The landscape being made up of dusty desert hills with only sparse shrubbery and all the more gorges and creaks, the moonlight lent it a ghostlike or alien character. Then we started to climb, and there was more vegetation, but because of the dark it was difficult to make out much. The speed at which we were moving and the lenient use of breaks as well as the distinct complaints from an abused gearbox every so often meant that sleep was definitely the preferred option, unless you were a fan of seeing the bends in the road race up to meet you.
Much later, I woke up and discovered that the purple and pink light of Thursday’s dawn was reflected by snow on the top of the mountains surrounding Huaraz.
