Ayacucho, Peru May 22-25, 1979
Yesterday Sue and I had the most amazing bus ride yet. We started out from Huancavelica at 6 am, the bus full to brimming with campesinos and all their baskets, babies and bundles – colourful but crowded. I ended up with a large basked of bread on my knees until about a half an hour out of town, when another lot of campesinos boarded the already over-full bus, and I took pity on a very young child who was getting lost underfoot: so Sue got the bread on her lap, and I got the kid.
The bus was travelling on the highest altitude continuous road in the world – with appropriately striking scenery: fairly level, grass-carpeted, with a thin layer of frost over all; now and again field-stone casitas, thatch-roofed, and somewhere nearby a herd of llamas, but no people in sight. Spectacular lagunas, mirroring, reflecting, the lovely green and blue hues, and of course the blue-blue sky above.
The kid on my knee started throwing up his morning’s breakfast of cherries – pits and all. More campesinos got on the bus, and I traded my now sleeping little friend for a baby whose mother, standing in the aisle beside me, finally succumbed to bus-sickness and began to retch rather violently into a little tin she’d brought with her, evidently in anticipation. Her face was hidden under her hat, and her shawl wrapped around her shoulders and head. She was now squatting in aisle, and I holding the manta-bundled babe, watching it smile and stare, stare and smile, at this strange-looking white person. The baby was wearing three t-shirts and a red-knitted dress, but no diaper (of course) – just layers of blankets. But still the little bare feet poking out through them all, kicking their way to freedom, and the little hands escaping as well, showing us a red ribbon bracelet with three good-luck charms.
So many children! Mostly crying. So many runny noses, sad eyes, raw, darkened, sun and wind weathered cheeks. Children crying, mothers being sick, children being sick. Another stop. More campesinos, climbing over one another trying to get in – or out – stepping on parcels and people. Women, men, children, crammed into the bus – standing, squatting, sitting on the armrests of other passengers’ seats, hanging from the overhead rails. And still the children keep crying. The road going on and on, and up and up, a laguna around every bend, but never a town.
We finally get to Santa Inez where we had coffee and bread as we waited in the sun with a jewelry salesman from Lima and six or seven campesinos for the only bus from Pisco to Ayacucho. The bus, when it came, was full, and the driver unwilling to take us, but Sue stood against the door, keeping it open as we pleaded with both the driver and the passengers to let us on. Her determination prevailed. The driver shrugged; the passengers sat passively, their faces giving nothing away. So now we join the ranks of those who are sitting on our bundles in the aisle… . Not particularly comfortable, but it was getting us where we wanted to go.
Until, that is, the bus had a flat. On the narrow gravel road this was a perilous event. The bus was swaying and swerving wildly – ‘careening’ is the word that comes to mind, and the driver seemed completely unaware of the problem. Perhaps he had fallen asleep, or was drunk. Both of these are common problems with truck and bus travel here. The passengers started screaming “Llanta mala! MALA LLANTA!” (“bad tire, BAD TIRE!”) I got up and made my way down the aisle, stepping over people and bundles until I got to the driver. I wanted to make sure he was awake. He was, but looked like he’d just woken up. He slammed on the brakes, sending the bus skidding towards the cliff. Once it came to a stop he inched it forward and away from the cliff so that we could all get out. And then we all stood and sat for over an hour by the side of the road. The bus of course had no spare tire and no jack, so apparently we were waiting for someone to come from .... where? We hadn’t passed a town in ages. It promised to be a very long wait.
So Sue and I decided to try our luck at hitching, and got a ride right away with the next truck that came by. This is one of the perks of being gringas – the truck drivers always want to pick us up. On the down side, they often literally want to pick us up. But this guy was okay, and we rode comfortably in his cab for the next stretch of the road, through mountains of red, orange, yellow and green – fantastic colours and patterns, surreal and strangely beautiful. We passed several of what appeared to be very extensive old mines – slag heaps and great holes in the sides of the mountain – but no sign of recent activity. After that we passed into another Andean landscape – grass-covered, half rolling, half-craggy mountains with beautiful dark grey-brown rocks, winding our way through a seemingly never-ending river valley, dotted with dark grey-brown houses (thatch-roofed), clearly made of the surrounding rock. A hobbit landscape in which lived several herds of haughty llamas who stared at us blandly as we labored up hill on rough roads, at speeds only occasionally reaching a maximum of 30 kmph. They knew they could outrun us, easy.
For the last hour of the ride before arriving at Ayacucho I jumped up on top of the truck and sat with the young lad who’d been riding there all along – Romano – a mostly Indian mestizo who was one of the nicest guys I’ve met in Peru. We talked non-stop about traveling, artesenia, crafts, drugs, Peruvian culture and politics, Quechua, Ayacucho, and family.
Ayacucho is a nice little colonial town, somewhat reminiscent of Antigua – clean, friendly, white colonial buildings, a date palm and blossoming planted plaza, very spacious, with a tremendous equestrian statue in the middle.
We wandered and window-shopped, then went to the Tourista Hotel for a couple of end-of-a-harrowing-day drinks. Followed by a fast and ugly dinner in the gringo café, filled with loud music, and equally loud and obnoxious gringos. Once in bed I had the worst nightmares yet – a combination of museum of the inquisition and William Borough’s ‘Naked Lunch’. I was in a truck with a couple of upper-class gangsters trying to explain the disappearance of young white boys and asking me if I didn’t know that very well-to-do, very highly thought of doctors, lawyers and businessmen – friends of my father’s – hung these boys by their necks with weights tied round their ankles and used them for ‘sexual pleasure’ – a very grisly and disturbing dream. Where did that come from?
This morning after waiting a few hours for hot water at our hotel we finally gave up and went to the much classier ‘Tourist Hotel”, where we paid 200 soles (just over a dollar) each, and had wonderfully long, hot – hot! – showers. (Most of the time showers that are advertised as ‘caliente’ are tepid at best, or just downright cold. Often there’s no shower head, just an open pipe, so ‘showering’ entails dancing in and out under a cold stream of water. Enjoying the luxury of hot water I washed my self, my hair and most of my clothes three times. It was HEAVEN!
After that we took an early afternoon stroll in the market – mostly just looking, with a little bit of buying (little things), and really enjoying the friendly chit-chat with the women vendadores. They are so lovely here, so much fun, so friendly – always laughing, pleading with us to buy their wares: ‘Compreme gringita! Compreme!’ (‘buy from me, gringa, buy from me!’), then laughing and chatting some more.
I couldn’t resist taking a photo of a little girl – a baby really, only just sitting, not walking yet – and who was by herself at one of the vendadore’s ‘stalls’ – just a collection of old wooden boxes with apples and bananas piled on top. Her mother wasn’t far away (of course), and came over to chat. Like many mothers here, she asked me if I would take her baby – this little girl was her youngest – with me back to ‘Norte America’. Although the women are usually smiling when they suggest this, they are not joking. I have had some serious discussions with them about the hardships they – and their children – face. About their lack of access to birth control which means they usually have many children, many of whom die before the age of six from childhood diseases and malnutrition. About how much they love their children and want them to have a ‘good life’, but cannot offer that to them. And about how they know that I, and others like me, can. That we live in the ‘land of opportunity’. And that is what they want for their kids. Of course. As usual I demurred, as delicately as possible, and moved on, sadder and wiser.
We looked for quite a while at the beautiful bulky knit alpaca sweaters they knit here, at lots of alpaca weavings and all kinds of alpaca hats, bags, and mittens. I bought a dark brown alpaca hat with white llamas woven in a band around the crown – I love the idea of llamas walking in circles around my head. Sue bought some mittens. We decided to take a pass on the sweaters – beautiful but too bulky.
We were just about to leave when we noticed a crowd gathering at the outskirts of the market. So we went over to explore. It was a demonstration against the high – and escalating – cost of living in Peru. There were people wearing painted animal masks and handing out leaflets to anyone who would take one. I assume the masks were as much to conceal identity as for ‘fun’. The gathering culminated in a sort of march or parade down the street. As it happened it was in the direction of our hotel, so we followed along, and then took a photo from our room in the hotel, looking down. Although I was somewhat worried about the risks of being even on the periphery of a demonstration in Peru, where the military are well known for their brutality, the event was peaceful.
Later that day we headed back into town, and stumbled across an amazing knick-knack store run by an old woman and her son, who perhaps had Down Syndrome or some other syndrome that resulted in his being slow, both physically and mentally. Here in South America I have noticed that children and adults who we often segregate in special schools or home are part of society – usually working in the homes and businesses of their families. They have all seemed happy enough, with wonderful smiles. The store was filled with cases of junk jewelry, religious artifacts, candles, grotesque sculpted items, pictures … and … embroidery threads from France, very old, and the most beautiful colours. And so cheap: old prices for old threads. I bought 40. I can hardly wait to start embroidering and crocheting with them. I’ve had pretty limited colours so far.
The next day, still suffering the energy-draining effects of the super-high altitude, Sue and I dragged ourselves up the hill to the museum on the outskirts of town. It was very worthwhile, with interesting artifacts. I was again taken by the ceramics – so many weird and wonderful shapes – human, animal and plant forms, some very playful, especially of people’s facial features (the man with the very pinched nose, mouth, eyes and ears). The designs and dibujos (drawings, images) painted on the ceramics and woven into the fabrics were similar to those we’ve seen elsewhere, but every region has its own distinctive style.
Fish and bird motifs from weavings at Ayacucho Museum.
After the museum we somehow found the energy to keep climbing, reaching a great spot for a view of Ayacucho. Fortunately we caught a ride back down.
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