hens, mud, trout and a milk truck...

Four days in Celendin. No one told me that buses only left twice a week, so I was stuck until Sunday. Celendin is pretty quiet, a small little town. The surrounding mountains and plantations are pretty, but don´t leave much to do. Saturday morning, I woke up at 5 o´clock and couldn´t fall back asleep. I laid in bed with my eyes closed until 6 and gave up. I got out of bed, brushed my teeth and went to the bakery across the street for breakfast. The owner of the hotel, Francisco (who is addicted to playing chess), had told me about some thermal baths that are in the valley below. The drive is about an hour and a half, but only because of all the switchbacks. In reality, he said, you could probably arrive walking pretty quickly. I decided to test his hypothesis, so I took off walking to the valley of Llanguat.

From the plaza, it is only about 5 blocks until the town ends and houses are scattered farther and farther apart along the road. For the early hour, there were a lot of people out, starting to work in the fields or walking to the market with their goods to sell. As I walked along, I occasionally asked someone just to make sure I was on the right road. Finally a woman told me that if I saw a little trail off the road, I should take it, otherwise it would take me a very long time. ¨Have a nice walk, gringita...¨ she said as I walked away (in these parts, people say gringo in a very nice way). With those vague directions, I continued and when I saw a little trail I took it. I figured that as long as it went downhill, I must be going in the right direction. The vegetation grew thicker and it was impossible to see where the trail was leading to on the mountainside. I have always felt very small when hiking in the mountains, but when you are by yourself and have some doubts as to if you are on the right trail...or that maybe some rabid dog is going to jump out of the woods and go crazy...well, then you feel really really small. At the worst though, I would just follow the same trail back up and out.

Just at that moment, after about an hour on the trail by myself, a old campesino suddenly appeared behind me. ¨Are you going to the Valle?¨ he asked. I said yes, and he said ¨Let´s go to the valley.¨ He had a mouthful of coca leaves and was almost impossible to understand. Occasionally, when he asked me something, I would have to ask him to repeat himself two or three times. After so many attempts and still not understanding his mumbling, I would just respond any little thing, like what the weather is like in the states or how many brothers and sisters I have. He seemed just as content with my nonrelated responses that the strange conversation continued.

The man was very old, and was going to work in the plantations down below in the valley. He flew down the mountain, making it very hard for me to keep up with him, but I was so glad to know that I was on the right path that I followed. He had a funny way of going down the mountain, stepping on just the large stones instead of in between on the dusty path. It was like crossing a creek stepping only on stones. I caught on after a little while and before I knew it, we were in the valley. We split paths and I went in the direction of the the baths, and he went towards the plantations of sugarcane.

The baths were in the middle of a thick green forest, alongside a large river. There was one large bath with hot brown water that smelled a little weird, a col water pool that looked like it never got cleaned, and a bunch of people bathing in the river. At this point I realized that I was in the most conservative place ever. The women all bathed with all their clothes on...and unfortunatetly, I had on jeans and a long sleeved shirt...the clothing that takes the longest to dry. I didn´t feel like being the talk of the town, so I opted for a private bath. You pay 60 cents, and get big room with a little pool and a spicket that shoots out hot thermal water. It was a much better option, and I sat in the hot water for a good hour until my fingers were wrinkly.

Sunday was finally the day of the bus. At one of the other companies, I was told that buses left at 9 in the morning. I arrived at 8:30 so I could get a good seat for me and the cello. Unfortunatly the bus that I wanted doesn´t actually leave until 11, but there was a 8:30 bus going to a town close-by, seven hours in the direction of my destination. I decided to take that bus instead of sit around. The woman selling tickets insisted that I buy a window seat. I kept telling there that I needed an aisle seat because of the cello, but since I am a ¨tourist,¨ I needed a better view, and plus ¨the bus never goes full.¨ So I get my backpack up on top and go find my seat, leaving the cello in the seat next to me...and of course, a young guy comes up with the ticket next to mine. So I stick the cello on the empty seat behind me, which was the last seat on the bus. Next thing I know, two young guys get on with three live hens...two in a box and one in the guy´s arms. The had the seats next to the cello. So then I have to fight with this guy because he thinks his hen should get the seat next to him instead of my cello, afterall I hadn´t bought the seat for the cello and he had bought the seat next to the empty seat, which obviously made it more his that mine. I tried to convince him that both the cello and the hen could have the seat, but he didn´t want to hear anything of it. Finally a woman sitting next to him who was a little spastic, started to complain that the hen was going to poop all over and that it was already cock-a-doo-da-dooing and that he needed to get a box. And the guy next to me claimed that the cello was his big guitar and that it was very fragile and was going to ride there whether hen-man liked it or not. So the guy with the hen shut up, got a box and shoved the hen under his seat and the cello made it without any problems.

At about 4:30 pm, I arrived in Leymebamba. I got off the bus to find myself in an even tinier little town. There wasn´t even a bank or a market, mostly just houses and, of course, the Plaza de Armas. I found a hotel, dropped off my stuff and started to walk around town. It didn´t take me more than 2o minutes to see everything and I arrived in the Plaza. There I met Egdar, a tour guide from Chachapoyas. He told me that he was taking an American girl and a French guy to the Laguna de los Condores the next morning, and that I could tag along, as long as I threw in some money for food and paid for my stay at the refuge. Since I didn´t have any other plans, I agreed.

Monday morning, we met in the plaza at 7 am. It would be five of us (including another guide), plus a horse. The horse would carry the food and the girl from Wisconsin. After eating arroz a la cubana (rice with fried eggs and fried plantains), we started our walk out of town. As soon as we had arrived out of town we started walking along a smaller dirt trail. It took us on a long ascent up a mountain, through jungle with tons of amazing butterflies and colorful birds. The bird calls were the most amazing, all so distinct. The hike continued on and on, and when I started to feel exhausted (after having gone uphill for a good two hours at Peruvian pace...really fast without stopping), I asked how long of a walk it was to the refuge. Only eight hours, 25 miles, they responded. Of course they always neglect to tell you those little facts. The path then started to cross pampa, immense rolling grassy plains between the mountains. There were stone forests on either side of us and sometimes the grass was really spongey and made it difficult to walk. We stopped to eat lunch half-way there and continued our path.

The rest of the trail was more pampa and then a final descent back into the jungle and through a ton of mud until we arrived at Don Julio´s refuge. The guides had brought boots for themselves and Eric and Anna...the kind of rubber boots that comes up to your knees. However, they also neglected to tell me the little fact that we would be going through a ton of mud. I got to practice my art of jumping on stones and pieces of wood. Sometimes you get going fast and then end up balancing with one foot on a tiny little stone with no where to go, just teetering there trying not to fall over. It was pretty comical. Thankfully, over the 60 miles that we walked in three days, I only took one dive into the mud, just up to my elbows, and there was a river close after that I washed off in.

Don Julio´s refuge is in the middle of the jungle where he cleared a large area of all trees and vegetation for his cattle (yes, this is why I don´t eat meat). Not only did he destruct the land, but before, amongst the jungle were intact Pre-Incan ruins which his cattle have now destroyed almost completely. I quickly gained an intense hatred for Don Julio, but unfortunately, there was no where else to stay. He had built a log cabin with several rooms with bun beds and a rustic kitchen with a wood-burning stove and no chimney (aka, the black room). The floors in all the rooms were packed down dirt and there was no electricity. The only water shot out of a pipe from a spring in the mountainside and made a muddy mess next to the house. Regardless, after walking 25 miles, I was thrilled to arrive and take off my backpack. We made dinner and went to bed by 8 o´clock.

The next morning we slept in a little bit and woke up to have coffee and bread with jelly for breakfast. At about nine we left to hike to the Laguna de los Condores (Condor Lagoon). It was about a half hour walk along the cleared mountain ridge until we had a view of the Lake. The lake is huge and black and lining the other side were stone cliffs almostly entirely covered with thick forest. We hiked down the ridge and to the lakeshore. We crossed a skinny part of the lake on a log to find a trail on the other side. The trail took wound through the jungle (only passable with machete) to a little open area on the shore. Egdar had brought a fishing line and we dug up some worms and these other gross-looking grubs and we took turns fishing until we had caught 11 good-sized trout. We cleaned them, put them in a bag, and left the bag in a little pool in the river that was coming down the mountain.

From there we followed a trail even farther up the mountainside and deeper into the jungle. There were several parts of the trail with rustic wooden ladders and ropes to pull yourself up. We also arrived to a couple places where we had to cross under waterfalls and across logs. The final part was the scariest, scooting across a wet cliff with water falling on you. We finally arrived to the ruins. They are under a rock overhang and included several small stone buildings with windows. There were paintings on the buildings and on the stone cliff and several skulls laying around. Most of the skulls still had hair and teeth. There were also pieces of woven fabric and random ceramic pieces scattered about. This was a burial ground of the Chachapoyas (Pre-Incan) culture. It is intense to be in a place like this knowing that only a handful of people will ever arrive there due to the difficulty in arriving.

That night we had trout soup with noodles. The next morning we woke up at 6, ate breakfast and were hiking by 6:40. The plan was to arrive in Leymebamba as early as possible. The hike back was exhausting, especially since our ¨guides¨ had badly planned the food, and there was nothing to eat along the way. Eight hours and 25 miles of hiking with just coca leaves and water (I remembered why I never go on guided tours). We arrived in Leymebamba exhausted and hungry and went straight to eat a big lunch.

After, we asked around about transportation. The only buses that go to Chachapoyas leave at 4 in the morning and a taxi wanted to charge an absurd amount. We sat in the plaza, exasperated, until a large truck pulled up. In the back it had a gigantic steel cylinder. Egder asked if the guy would give us a ride to Chachapoyas. He agreed for a small fee. Eric and Anna rode in the cabin, and Egder and I rode the three hours in the back of the open truck with a huge cylinder of milk blocking most of our view. It was a long bumpy ride to Chachapoyas, and very very dusty.

I will stay here until my legs stop feeling like rubber.