We will get the night bus to the peruvian boarder, this is mean´t to be the easiest crossing and then on to piura, the nearest town. So a pick-up taxi takes us back to the bus station and we say goodbye to vilcabamba, heading again to loja to change to the bus to peru. Our first land boarder crossing in SA, so we´re a little nervous, the combination of night time, police in military uniforms and large mustaches, just gives you the willies(I´m sure I didn´t have that cocaine in my pocket before I boarded the bus!)
A process that took far too long, (presumably the length of time is equal to the perceived importance of those involved) finally ushered us on our way and into to interior of peru.
Piura handed us a hint as to what to expect, in the rest of the journey south. Ecuador is very sedate in comparison, this city had motor rickshaws, cycle rickshaws, taxis, mopeds, private cars and animals all vying for space with each other, but also with the street vendors who seemed to have no idea where the road starts or ends. Therefore, we are left with an explosion of activity that eventually finds it´s equilibrium, and some form of order breaks out. It reminded me very much of india, chaotic, but absolutely fascinating.
We got a taxi into town with a couple of fellow travellers, managed to get some money changed and had a breakfast together. One, was a young female brit travelling on her own(like so many women we´ve met!) and the other, a young canadian lad who was very energetic, naive and a bit of a knob, but endearing enough not to try and get rid of.
Then we split our ways, they headed to the peruvian northwest coast and us to chiclayo, further south and really just to break up the journey to trujillo. Chiclayo was an extension of the madness visited upon us in the previous city. It is totally dominated by small yellow taxis, followed a close second, by collectivos. They are small mini-buses, of dubious condition, that prowl around the streets hunting down prospective punters and then jamming them all into a space that doesn´t exist. However, they are cheap and a great idea.
Chiclayo also has important ruins, tucume, but the journey there was more interesting than the site, collectivo and then motor rickshaw and then a walk through countryside. We did meet a massive school party of 8-10 year old girls who were also visiting the ruins, they crowded around us and assailed us with questions and wanted pictures with us to show their families. Once the last of them had been prized away from our lower limbs, we met a chimu dog for the first time. They are completely bald, except maybe for a Mahican, a black dry skin that is kind of leathery, and very good natured. This could be because they are so ugly, that any affection towards them, must be heaven sent. The site showed evidence of an ancient settlement, had some good views from the top, but was largely uninspiring. In hindsight we should have paid for a guide.
Back in the town, we also visited a massive market, renowned in the area, had fruit shakes, looked at the witch doctors section with thousands of herbal remedies and generally nosed about. We spent a few days here and became quite fond of it. Another bonus was the tv in our hotel room, the luxury of watching football and sherlock holmes, the bbc! On top of this, we found a favourite chicken and chips place (everywhere is chicken, nothing else) and so we pigged out with a big bottle of fanta in front of the tv, fantastic!
a travelogue in the time of the information superhighway
1994
My story starts in drizzly, dreary, grey England. I worked as a nurse in a specialist cancer hospital in Manchester. One day, I suddenly entered her world, there she was. At once beautiful, but decaying visibly. Eyes that melt you, fumbled for reasons. High on morphine, she slumped on the chair. Her legs, previously long and graceful, were now fat and full of fluid. She was loosing her hair, something that upset her most. We all witnessed her struggling with the remains of her dignity and modesty, but she carried on fighting. Her mother applied facial cream like a corner man at ringside, her father just looked lost. She was a twenty seven year old woman, right before us, dying in her prime. She seemed to hold up a mirror to the thoughts sailing across my mind, a metaphor for what we've all become and what will become of us. So much potential, so much waste. It is at moments like this that we can take the looking glass to our own fragile existence, and ask questions of it. Cancer had infiltrated her womb, the very giver of life. I became aware of a feeling that her death had released something else, a thirst for living itself. She haunted me. Four months later, I set out on an adventure to view the world that she would no longer see.
Posted by don quixote
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