Huaraz, Peru April 29 - May 2, 1979
We finally made it to Huaraz, after a grueling all day bus ride from Pativilca, winding our way on narrow, pot-holed or unpaved roads through the soft green, brown and grey forms of the Cordillera Negra. These gentle giants are called the ‘black mountains’ because they are not, like the higher, more jagged Cordilla Blanca, white with snow all year round.
Taken from the window of the bus, while we were moving. All that sand, one shovel at a time.
The town of Huaraz is the ‘capital’ of the Ancash region, with a population of around 85,000. It was devastated by the 1970 earthquake and subsequent flooding that occurred when a dam above the town broke. Estimates are that 95% of the town was destroyed – and from the looks of it even now, I’d say that might be about right. Many buildings and whole areas – especially in the northern part of town – are still in various stages of demolition and reconstruction. A lot of this is funded by the USA, so folks here have a somewhat friendlier attitude towards the US, and towards us gringos in general. Although the town itself is not a particularly ‘pretty’ place, architecturally, and looks more American than Peruvian – boxy buildings in a boring grid pattern of streets – it is in a spectacular location. It sits at over 10,000 feet, in a wide valley – the Callejon de Huaylas – between the Cordillera Negra to the west and the Cordillera Blanca to the east. The area, known as the ‘Alps of Peru’, is stunningly beautiful. The majestic Mount Huascaran, the highest mountain in Peru at 22,205 feet, is clearly visible from Huaraz. It’s a stunning sight, especially on a sunny day (which most are), when it shines like a massive beacon.
Still a long way from Huaraz, but this is Mount Huascaran.
Closer.... but still not there....
John, Sue and I are staying in a small ‘pension’ run by a family of mestizos who are very friendly. They have four rooms for rent, but only two were available, so John took one and Sue and I are sharing the other. We take our meals with the family in their mud-walled kitchen cum ‘dining room’. Tonight it consisted of lots of vegetables and rice, followed, as appears to be the custom, by a hearty vegetable/noodle soup. We took turns telling stories about our lives – and us about our travels, which they were very keen to hear. There was a lot of laughter, even from Papa Cesar, who often seems so serious. Such a wonderful family – its’ so comfortable just to sit and spend time with them.
Laneway between our pension and the next house. They use this bicycle cart to transport provisions to and from market
- or give the littler kids a ride.
Last night Mama came to our room visit with Sue and me. She brought tea, sat down, and started to talk. She told us she was 46 years old. She looks 33-35 – her thick black hair, braided or flowing free across her shoulders, her lovely soft-skinned face, her sparkling eyes, the calm brightness of her manner, both listening and speaking – make her seem younger than her 46 years.
She spoke first about her family, how attached she is to her children, how much she loves them. She told us how they all make bread together, and all share in the duties of running the pension. Indeed I have seen the eldest son, Americo, the father, Cesar and even the littlest one, Rafaelito, ironing sheets. Her daughter Nelly, who is almost 20 years old, does the dishes and keeps the books. At one point in the evening Nelly came in and joined us for a while. She brought us a cup of rum, hot water, sugar and chamomile – for our coughs – then went off to bed.
After Nelly left, Mama told us of how, just after Nelly was born, she was given antibiotics for a bad case of the grippe, and that these had caused her milk to dry up so she couldn’t feed Nelly. And how worried she had been as she watched Nelly, who wouldn’t drink from a bottle, grow thinner and thinner… . A friend brought her a herb which has a milky substance inside it; she rubbed this on her breasts and shoulders and within a few days had enough milk to feed her baby.
Mama is such a lovely, gracious woman, and so much a mother. She has christened me ‘Julita’ – ‘little Julia’ – a term of endearment, which is often used for children, or very close friends. I'm not sure which category she's placed me in, but I'd be happy to be either.
Perhaps it was the rum that got Mama talking, or perhaps it's a story that affects her so deeply still, but her account of the 1970 earthquake was riveting - a terrifying and inspiring tale. When the earthquake hit Mama was pregnant – almost nine months – with her youngest, Rafael (who is now nine). That morning she had taken Nelly and the two smaller girls with her out of town to her father’s place, to harvest potatoes that the family there. They were busy digging when the shaking started. Cows and donkeys fell, screaming, to the ground. Everything around her was moving. She thought the end of the world had come. The quake went on for ten or fifteen minutes, the earth shaking violently, houses collapsing, everything in a dizzy whirl. And then came a terrific wind and dust, dirt and rubble flying through the air. When it was over and she knew that both she and her kids were safe and unharmed, they started walking on what was the long road toward town, now a bumpy, rocky track, navigable only on foot, and with the vestiges of familiar landmarks - the mountains were still there - to help guide. They made back to what was left of the town, most of which was in ruins - houses just piles of rubble. She found a ‘corner’ she thought recognized. She began asking others, who were wandering around, dazed, and just as shaken as she was, if they had seen anyone from her family - her husband, her sons, her father. She was told that everything had been destroyed; virtually all of the houses had collapsed. And that they didn’t know if her family were alright or not; they hadn't seen them. Although her ankles and legs were bruised and sore, and her children were exhausted from the difficult walk, they kept going, searching for her home and her family. Luckily she found her two sons, her husband, and her father, still alive, and unhurt – but their home was in ruins.
The town was without water or electricity for over a year. The people were given no aid, no help for rebuilding their houses, and very little food was distributed to the long lines of hopeful men, women and children who waited hours for a few potatoes. Her husband built a one-room house, the adobe room that now serves as the family’s kitchen, and the entire family – mother, father and six children – lived in that one room for two years while the rest of the house was slowly built. To feed themselves they built an oven and began baking bread (they were lucky to have flour and sugar) which they sold and traded. When it came time for her to have Rafael, she didn’t want to go to the hospital – two of her previous babies had died, under doctors’ care (one stillborn after she had taken medicine to reduce swelling in her legs and feet, the other shortly after birth of colic and pneumonia) – but there was nowhere else to go. So amidst the misery of hopeless, homeless families half-living in the hospital, and hundreds of wounded victims of the quake, feeling ‘very heavy in my heart’ to see such suffering, she gave birth to her last child in the local hospital. Raphaelito - little Raphael.
Over the next nine years, working hard every day, and selling bread and whatever vegetables they could grow that they didn't themselves need to eat, they managed to keep adding rooms to their home, until they had enough that they could rent some out to the tourists who kept coming, even right after the earthquake. As is the case for many of the families here, it's the dollars that tourists spend that enable them to live, if not with many of the comforts we take for granted, at least better than before. They have running water and electricity - most, but not all, of the time. And they have each other, which is the most important thing to Mama.
Mama's eldest son, Americo, out for a walk in the hills with us.
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