Lagunas de Llanganuco May 3, 1979
On our third day in Huaraz we got up early, hoping to catch an early bus to Yungay, and then go from there to the Langunas of Llanganuco, two spectacular lakes in the foothills of Mount Huascaran. Although it was supposed to leave at 6:30, the driver kept making circles around the town as his ‘crier’ yelled out the bus’ destination – ‘caruuhasyungaaaaaaaaay’ – and grabbed passengers off street corners, out of restaurants and bars, and from every nook and cranny where they might be hiding. We finally got on our way, driving through a truly beautiful ‘Alpian’ mountainscape, through a couple of small villages, to Yungay, a village almost totally destroyed by the earthquake of 1970. All that remains of the central plaza are four dead palm trees, sticking up out of the now cultivated, or at least grass-covered, earth and rubble like silent sentries.
We were there awhile negotiating a ride in a truck to the Lagunas. It ended up fully loaded with about 30 passengers (mostly gringos, some Latinos, some Indios) sitting and standing in the back. It laboured its way up through the cracks and crevices of the foothills below Mount Huascaran – an elusive white angel, always right there above us, guiding us on. The road to the lagunas was less a road than a rough dirt track or trail, following the course of a clear free-running stream – presumably of water from the lagunas. We passed through a couple of pueblitos – very small settlements where some of our truck-mates jumped down.
We finally reached the Lagunas of Llanganuco, two beautiful glacial lakes – their waters a stunning turquoise blue – lying peacefully at the foot of the mighty Huascaran. John and some of the other gringos jumped right into the cold of the turquoise blue waters. They didn’t stay long....
The hills around the lagunas are like massive rock sculptures in hues of cream and green – copper green – dotted with hardy plants, some red-red, not with flowers but for their leaves and stems – so red against the cream-green rock. The elegant curves and branches of these plants, set against the sharp precision-cut edges and blocks of silent stone, were an affirmation not just of life, and its tenaciousness, its determination, but of its beauty, fragile and delicate though it may be. It survives. From the snowy summit of Huarscaran came several high, thin cascades of clear cold water, glinting silver and gold in the early mid-day sun. This water feeds the wealth of shrubs, grasses, and flowers – such flowers! – all colours of the rainbow. So very alive and welcoming. The mountains speak to me of power and endurance; the water of timeless flow; the little red shrubs of life force and elegance; and the flowers of merriment, joy – and fragility.
Sue and I (taking photo) having a picnic above the Lagunas.
Sue and I walked along the edges of the many happy-flowered, turquoise-watered lakes, talking of travels, of friends, of fate, and of how glad we were to have found one another along the gringo trail. We’ve become good friends. We made our way slowly back down the road, now under the towering rock giants, rock teeth, of Mount Huarscaran, somehow less majestic, less threatening now that the sun is no longer on their faces, but announcing the power of their presence nonetheless. We hiked down one steep track amid a veritable convention of wildflowers – delegates from all colours, sizes, shapes – onto a bushy rock-strewn moor, a place of trolls and faeries, no longer on the road but keeping it in view… . And then a massive rock, a truly gigantic rock, presented itself before us, begging the question of where to go now. We wondered what might be behind that giant rock. “The perfect place for ladrones” Sue said, as we rounded the corner and saw that this very rock formed the roof of a little rock-pile casita – perhaps a shepherd’s home, but now apparently, abandoned. A little faerie house it seemed, an absolutely perfect place, out of the elements, yet open to them too. Inside were the charred reminiscences of previous fires, three stones on which once balanced (not so long ago?) a pot of soup or maize. If you must be poor, I thought, let it be here. Let it be here in the arms of this majestic mountain.
A little further down the road we came upon a cluster of adobe houses, round with grass-thatched rooves and clay-pot ‘peaks’. Stray cattle, goats and sheep grazed in the hills about. And then we heard the wonderfully sweet and simple song of a child, coming down the mountain with his little flock of goats or sheep, a rhythmically repeating melody without words – or without words we could understand. We stopped awhile to listen, and suddenly became spectators of a dramatic and vocal event involving two big black bulls who pawed and snorted, bellowed and menaced at one another, but were sent running in opposite directions by our young musical friend, waving a stick – or was it baton, and he the maestro for a mini-opera: ‘The Escapade of the Raging Black Bulls’?
Just a few more minutes’ down the road we spied a figure in a field of green. He appeared to be dancing slowly, carefully, with a ribbon of white – stretched out before him and attached to a pole. It didn’t take us too long to figure out that he was weaving, but this was a form of back-strap weaving we hadn’t seen before. We walked through the corn and grass to where he stood, the ribbon of thick white wool stretched out, several meters long in front of him, as he passed his shuttle back and forth, at intervals using a broad double-edged wooden sword to bang the woven threads tight, and swaying from foot to foot as he did so, dancing as he weaved, the fields of corn and grass around him, the glistening white crown of Huscaran behind, and every day the sun. He told us it would take him four days to weave the length, for a poncho. Four days of weaving in a magical place, with the snow-god watching over him.
Sometimes I can’t believe that I too am here. Here in the midst of this mountain splendor. I reminisce about my time in the Rockies. I think of these mountains – the Rockies and the Andes – as my friends, my teachers. Mountain magic; magic mountains.
Comments
Post a Comment