Marci Soifer

(Round 1 is to insinuate that I will return to the Andes...specifically for my trip to Cusco, Machu Picchu, and hiking the Inca Trail. This is not a two part posting...just to clarrify.)

It was Wednesday night, and another volunteer and I overheard our fifteenth (seemingly) conversation about the coming weekend and excitement over the travel plans of others. So, what did we do on the spot? Well, we opened up the Lonely Planet Peru guide, picked a location that seemed inexpensive and interesting (worthy of exploration, anyway), and decided that we would set off on Friday morning. The place: Huaraz, a city 7 hours northeast of Lima, set in the Andes, and known for some of the most majestic, beautiful, and famous countryside and hiking in the world.

A fair number of our volunteers, those from my original Lima arrival on January 22 are starting to fan out, and a chunk of them departed Friday morning. I awoke, said my goodbyes, threw my knee braces in a backpack with some clothes, put on my hiking boots, and headed out as well. I knew this impromptu vacation weekend would be relaxed, to follow the pattern of its inception, as this other volunteer and I joked and laughed as we jumped in a taxi to the bus station, hoping that we had heard correctly about bus times and that there would be two seats still available. Luckily, we were right on, about both, and boarded a 9:30 AM charter bus, complete with televisions and uniformed stewardesses, to Huaraz.

You know you are on a Peruvian bus when...it takes you two hours to get out of Lima, you get served a meal on the bus of meat, with a side of meat, and some potatos with meat inside for lunch (vegetarianism, oye) (good thing the other volunteer I traveled with is a boy, so he obviously ate both lunches no problem), you then drive another two hours in the coastal desert of the Pan American Highway and the bus is blasting the heat, you begin getting into the mountains just as the bus TVs blare The Cat in the Hat with Mike Meyers (in Spanish, just called The Cat, and weakly does not rhyme at all), and then some horrific movie with Coolio about shark attacks that forces you into praying to G-d that Peruvians know that not all American cinema is of this quality (nor is it...any of it really...involving Coolio and his stellar acting), and then you get into the Andes and, realize that this is one of the most amazing places in the world and you totally made the right choice in weekend travel.

The bus ride ended with picturesque views of free-flowing waterfalls against the side of lush-covered mountains with elevation that dissapeared into the clouds and a return to the Quechua speaking, indigenous people wandering the highways with the herds of animals that I left a short few weeks ago in Ayacucho. We got into the city at about 5:30, and after dodging about 30 different men shouting their harrassing claims of deals on treks and the tourism like in the door of the bus station, we decided to find a hostel. There was a light patter of rain falling, which was something foreign to our Lima (in the summer) accustomed skin. We had called ahead to one in particular hostel the day before, and figured that would be a good place to start.

Positioned mid-way up a mountain-side road in the middle of this city set on rolling hills a few blocks from the main plaza, we approached the reception woman eagerly (and a little short of breath, since we were at such high elevation again). The place was clean, accessible, offered breakfast and a variety of tours to assorted locations and guided treks (hiking), and had a rooftop floor with oval shaped leather coaches in front of a fireplace overlooking the snow-capped surrounding mountains. We booked immediately, and sat for a while on the couches, as we sipped coca tea (ah, memories), which is supposed to help us adjust to the elevation, and listened to the weird light rock CD that the receptionist put on for us (assuming that we were a couple). We were sold, and excited, and before we headed off for a few hours of what we agreed with Lonely Planet on as fine dining, we even told the receptionist that we would like to explore nearby ruins for our day trip the following day. Granted, this tour would be totally in Spanish, and necessitate a three hour bus ride through the mountains with 25 Peruvian tourists, but, why not? We were a little too lazy to look for another service so late at night, knew we needed to do something easy on our bodies on day one at this elevation, and figured that we could benefit from a little Spanish practice anyway.

So, a lot of wine, some food, and solid hours of sleep later, we boarded a small, 40 passenger bus that came directly to our hostel in the morning. We were the first to get on, and thought it was strange that we were assigned two seats in the middle. After about an hour of driving around to assorted hostels and homes (and street corners) in Huaraz, we picked up an entire bus load of Spanish speaking tourists, and figured out why our seats were set in stone. A greasy man collecting bills and coins to pay for the excursion got off the bus at the edge of the city, just as a sweet looking Peruvian man, with damp curls combed over his bald spot and a calm, slow paced voice boarded, getting on the mic to let us know that he would be our guide.

As he began to explain where we were going, to the lost city of Chavin, the less-well known Machu Picchu (or something), and went through our day-long schedule, the other volunteer and I looked at each and began to laugh, hysterically. Did we really just pay to spend a day with a Spanish speaking tour through Peruvian ruins? Ah, the adventure.

We drove for about an hour, higher, and higher, reaching even closer to the snow-capped mountains and then, deeper into the valleys between the lush covered greenery of the Andes. The bus stopped en route at a small roadside restuarant...you know the kind...the ones that you picture in Andean villages and figure you probably will avoid because it is for locals. Well, we got out, because the Peruvians did, and we decided to get ourselves a big cup of coca tea...because the Peruvians did (and no, we would not have jumped out of an airplane if the Peruvians did). We made another stop, about a half an hour later, at a beautiful turquoise lagoon, at the foot of the steep sloped Andes. After we got out to take pictures (of the lagoon, and strangely, the indigenous women who probably waits for the tour buses to roll through and take advantage of walking around with her baby goats for photo opportunities...and then charge 1 sole a picture) and inhale the crisp, high altitude in our lungs, we noticed that on the mountainside in front of us was an interesting formation. A barren mountain, formed mostly out of a mossy rock, was the home of an organized mess of trees in the exact shape of Peru. I recognized it immadiately, not just because I just purchased the stencil of Peru at the grocery store, but because it was immaculate. Precise. Trees, shrubs, greenery...thousands of feet above human contact...Peru.

Continuing on, we reached the ruins. This site was in the middle of this majestic countryside, and was complete with central locations, tiles, an underground set of tunnels, engraved rock formations, sacrifical pits, and interesting rock sculptures in the shape of heads (for protection). We wandered through and took some pictures. The other volunteer and I decided to play the translation game...where he would attempt to translate one of the guides explainations, and I would work out the next, and then back again. This really just turned into us listening to as much as we could, and then braking out into laughter in the meantime. It was interesting, from what we could tell, and it was a special site to Peru, so we were happy to have seen it...no question.

We ate dinner in a small reataurant in the neighboring small village of Chavin, still trying to figure out what we were doing and realizing that not only is there a Peruvian guy with us who currently lives in LA and speaks perfect English, but the German couple on our trip also speaks English. The drive back was dark, and therefore, much less exciting to get through at night. We slept from our assigned bus seats, and waited to get back to our hostel.

Trying to re-group, we decided to give ourselves a little rest and relaxation upon our return to Huaraz. After sprawling out in our room and making a couple phone calls (to find that my mother, in case you did not know, was doing well in her recovery from the surgical removal of her gall bladder), we were soon greeted by one of the men who runs the hostel. He asked us if we enjoyed our day trip, we nodded, he asked if we were interested in going on a day hike the next day, and we nodded. In our exhaustion, we did not realize that our nodding would necessitate a trip to the little adventure tourism office located next door, but before we knew it, we were sitting at a desk in this office, opposite another Spanish speaking tour guide.

She had a plan, and she was willing to take us on a day hike through the lagoons and majestic Andean mountains that we had heard of and wanted to explore (Huascaran). Excitedly, we paid her a small fee and agreed to meet her outside the hostel at 6 AM...the necessary time of embarkation.

The clouds lingered at 6 AM, as if the rain from the night before had not yet cleared, but the air felt dry and crisp. I held onto the inside of my long sleeved shirt with closed fists for warmth. I purposely wore my Seva long sleeved t-shirt, a remnant from my time at school in Ann Arbor (for those of you who do not know, Seva is one of my favorite restaurants on the planet, thus far. It is full of delictable, innovative vegetarian dishes, and they have a tradition of selling their shirts to patrons, and inviting the patrons to return with pictures of the wearing of the seva shirt all over the world. They have an enormous map inside the entrance, bordered with a couple hundred photos of their patrons around the globe, sporting the branded Seva shirt. And, if you are the one to bring in the photo, Seva offers you a free meal. Of all my adventures in South America, I plan to get a few free meals upon return to Ann Arbor). Wandering through the streets of Huaraz in the early appearance of daylight, observing the bustling vendors, farmers with wheelbarrowed crops, and whizzing taxi drivers, I had to remind myself that we were heading to the public bus station to help ease my head out of the morning haze.

Now, when I thought we were actually getting on a public bus, I was momentarily surprised to find that a public bus to our guide meant one of the Peruvain Combi buses. I say momentarily, because these buses are the ones that we are told Gringos cannot ride safely and should avoid at all costs, due to their literal packing full of people, dangerous drivers, and slow pace. But, this was our best option in transportation, and we were with a Peruvian, so how bad could it be? Besides, it is all part of the adventure...right?

We hopped on this minivan, which literally had seats so close together, I was grateful for my knee braces (and this was the first time I had needed them for something other than physical activity), and slowly, as the driver either passed a small town or a wandering person (who occasionally even flagged us down), the operator of the van would slide the door open and yelp as the people crowded into each seat, the aisleway, and sometimes, laps of others. The operator hung out of the window of this van, one hand grasping tightly inside, his head shouting for attention out the open window, and his other hand on the overhead rack, holding luggage from some of the other passengers. Oh, Peru.

We passed through another valley, alongside a flowing river, rolling mountains, grazing animals, and small remnants of towns which have not been rebuilt since a devestating earthquake in the 1970s. After our hour ride, we reached Yunguay, the largest center of commerce in these mountains, after Huaraz. This city was quiant, full of markets, wandering vendors, children playing in the street, and of course, cab drivers. After stopping off at a nearby store to purchase a couple bottles of water, some rolls, and a couple cans of tuna (for lunch), we got in a cab to head up the mountains and get into the national park.

The ride was breathtaking. With the morning haze lingering in the form of pockets of clouds randomly distributed around the mountain middles, we could just make out the way the greenery kisses the reflection of the snow on the mountain tops. The free flowing water falls crashed along the side of the road every so often, aggressively pounding through rocky mountainside. And, we had to slow on a few occassions to drive through the excess water produced by these waterfalls. After an hour of ascending, we finally made it to our site. We got out of the cab, paid the man for his service thus far, and asked him to return at 2:30, when we figured we would be finished.

This hike began slow, wandering through the lush green valley and cow pastures at the foot of these magnificent marvels. We laughed, passing over each enormous pile of cow dung and doing our best to dodge them (and thinking that my dad would really have been amazed at the size of this stuff) (I mean, it was funny). Our path crossed a few running brooks, which meant finding, tossing, and jumping on large stable rocks to keep feet dry, and even on flat ground, we noticed that the elevation was already effecting our breathing. Our guide pointed out the peaks, and explained the route of our hike, the ultimate goal of which was reaching a lagoon so high that it is remains directly below the snow caps of nearby mountains.

We walked and walked, ascending and ascending, stopping every 20 minutes or so to collect ourselves from the panting frenzy our oxygen-deprived lungs would demand at that point. The path was rocky, and at points, dusted with running water. Although there was no sun, we walked nearby giant waterfalls, and got closer and closer to mountain peaks, seemingly.

After about 4 hours, we made it to what felt like the top, and then understood from our guide that we were approaching a long plateau, which would take us to another uphill climb to the final lagoon. Before proceeding, we rested on a couple flat rocks on the side of the path. Over the top of the mountain, coming from the plateau, two women (gringas) who looked like they were in their 20s turned up. We discussed quietly where we supposed they were from, and decided on Europe as they finally got closer.

They greeted us in English, and broke out into conversation. They explained that they were coming from a nearby town, where they are currently working in the Peace Corps. And, before we heard anymore, one of them turns to me and exclaims, SEVA! Are you from Michigan? I nodded. She continued, I went to Michigan, and I used to work at Seva. You have got to be kidding me. How is this possible. And, to make it better, she added, you should really take a picture up here and bring it back there for your free meal. We quickly played the who do you know game, found nothing in common, and decided to go our own ways. Hysterically, we wished each other well and parted. I forgot her name already, but will never forget her face. Another Wolverine meeting me in the Andes, a Spartan in the jungle...wow. Classic.

I got more and more tired, as did the other volunteer who was in my company, and we needed to stop more and more frequently. We were tired, and really wanted to get to this lagoon, since the sky looked a bit like rain at this point. But, this was a nice opporutnity to observe the scenery, which looked like photo above.

By the time we reached the lagoon, 5 hours after we began, we were exhausted and saddened to find that the rain had beat us. It was more like hail, and in the open, rock surroundings of this lagoon, we could do nothing but stand still and revel in the turquoise water, and the reflection of the rocky mountains, cloud covered snow piercing the color of the water, and draining waterfalls around the edges. It was amazing, and well worth the hike. We stood silently for a short while, listening to the hail bounce off of our heads and feel the water saturate our clothes.

Hungrily, we sat down to eat the lunch hauled all the way up. Wet or not, you have to eat, right? I was glad to find that shortly after we began eating, the rain clouds passed and we began to dry. I shoveled the tuna down ravenously, as my eyes darted from place to place, trying to take in the scene. We had climbed to this place, 4600 meters above sea level. The Andes.

We descending quickly, and without problems. It took just two hours to get down, and the breathing was nothing out the ordinary. Since we were nearly three hours later than we had projected for the taxi driver, we were happy to see him at the end of the cow pastures waiting for us. We returned to Yunguay in this cab, picking up seven other people to ride in the front and trunk randomly on the way (oh, Peru), and boarded another Combi bus to get back to Huaraz, which dropped us off when the city had already returned to darkness.

After a little bit more eating, some relaxing at our hostel (and by relaxing, I mean repacking our belongs in the lobby and showering in the community, lobby bathrooms, as we had already checked out of the room), we returned to the bus station for our 10 PM bus, back to Lima. I was happy to find that the Bingo games ceased on night buses, but saddened to learn that Peruvian men certainly can belt out the snores. I slept for about four hours of the seven en route, which was great, since after our 5:30 AM return to the house this morning, I headed off to my first day at the new placement.

This plaecment is another support school, but this facility is run by the government. It absolutely has more funding, and the kids, who are still from Villa El Salvador, have access to more food, supplies, and space. I worked with the infants, which is more like a day care. There are five children, and while they can all walk, they cannot talk...they are all under the age of 2. We seem to have a lot of potty time, and feeding time...and while I do not mind doing it, I am not thrilled that this is how my final week of three months of volunteering will be spent.

Speaking of closure, I definetely feel my impending departure coming on. Today, I stood in the kitchen of my house, laughing and joking around with two of the people who run the house. Together, we examined the list of new volunteers, their new room assignments, and food restrictions on the refridgerator in our kitchen. And, there it was...staring at me...my room filled by new people, and the note that I would be leaving on Sunday. Martin, one of our security guards, gasped a louad-you are leaving? Yeah, I nodded. Luisa, our cook, chimed right in, expressing sadness. They asked me where I was going, what I was doing...the works. Suddenly, a large gust of wind passed through the open air of our house and brushed against our legs, pushing the wooden kitchen door into a pounding slam. Startled, the three of us turned to glance at the doors (remember, no apostrophes on these computers) meeting with the door frame. Martin then placed his hand on my shoulder, and pronounced, This is a sign that you cannot go. I smiled, bittersweetly, swallowing that these three months of volunteering are actually coming to an end.

Time is getting shorter to see all that I planned on and laugh as much with the other volunteers in Lima, I am squeezing as much as I can into this last load of laundry, I have started to spend HOURS at the internet attempting to book future travels (and of course, update my blog and get responding e-mails out...in some kind of timely fashion...KEEP WRITING), I finally got to the Lima Art Museum (which I have been planning to hit up for seven weeks), and my Lonely Planet books (thanks, Halie and Andrew) are glued to my fingers. This is it...almost into stage 3 of this adventure...the part when I become a nomad.