A Walk Through Huaraz

My calluses have been worn down to a pink, soft flesh, close to bleeding, but not quite there yet. When I examine the damage done to my fingers, I notice tiny droplets of sweat, almost the size of needle points, swelling up from where I once had fingerprints. It is time to go.

I have just finished another, solitary bouldering session in the fields of Huanchac. Three boulders sit just off of the dirt road that takes you through the campo outside of Huaraz. There is enough to keep one busy here, especially if you are still awaiting work, and are looking for a way to distract yourself. But after a few hours, the granite begins to wear down skin and break muscles, forcing me to pack my things and head back into the city.

Leaving the boulders I pass houses constructed of mud bricks and corrugated metal roofing. It seems that the most basic materials suffice, some coming from the very earth where the home is to be erected, others are imports from foreign lands. Either way, the homes are shelter from rain and relief from heat. More often than assumed, an electrical line hangs down from a pole, and slithers into the homes via holes in the brick. The existence of modern technology can be heard reverberating inside the walls of these simple homes via radio rhythms of cumbia and salsa, or through the static of a television station barely coming through:

Llámanos ahora para recibir ésta oferta.

Te cuidaremos con nuestro producto.

No tengas miedo, amor, así pasa.

The road is dirty. Dust arises from every step and settles in my pores, the corners of my eyes, and gathers gently in my sun-lightened hair. I walk a steep decline, a serpentine path, the sides of which are littered with trash. Plastic bags, Styrofoam, old clothes, rotten foods, tires, wrappers. You can smell the refuse. The sight is an unwelcome culture shock, but an element of culture. In my disgust, I realize that judgments arise, prejudices, blame. I try to stop my conditioning in an effort to see the filth for what it is: a disconnect between my American life, and this Peruvian life. Nothing more. The prejudice says that the people must be disrespectful, careless, cruel. But as I descend my path I realize that I harbor no such conception of the people.

When I first took this road I was afraid. It was clear that gringos did not belong in this part of the campo. I walked as a lost tourist, a trespasser, or worse, a voyeur of poverty and grief. I thought that the people would be angry at me, and that that anger came from their shame. Such sad homes. Such poor living conditions. So I averted my senses. No eyes to see the people. No ears to hear them speak. No thought other than left foot. Right foot. I walked quickly; intentionally. What ignorance.

When I finally learned to pick my head up and experience the path, I began my journey in Perú. The first time I made eye contact with a campesino, he smiled.

Buenas tardes.

I hadn’t expected a greeting, and so left him with an impression that gringos were closed, silent people, who walk intentionally. Left foot. Right foot.

I couldn’t help but laugh at my own condition. Here lies a man who believes himself conscious, deliberate, and open, yet he has closed himself to a gentle campesino who has offered him a greeting. What baseness. What disillusion. But with disillusion comes resolve.

Now as I walk I greet the people. There is a field where four men work daily constructing there home. Every time I pass they wave and ask me how I am doing. Bien. I return the question and upon finishing the conversation I return to walking and they return to work. There is an old woman who wears a worn out, mud stained dress, and sits on the ground, straddling a big red pale, washing her other dresses. She always smiles at me and says, Buenas tardes. I smile and ask how she is. Bien. Families returning from the city look up at me as I pass. We nod to each other, smile, and go about our business, but I am left feeling welcomed.

The dogs hate me, of that I am certain. But they hate everybody. They are, however, a testament to the old adage that their bark is worse than their bite. If I pass too close, or if they are just having a bad day, I am received with snarls, teeth gnashing, and a close, ferocious pursuit that lasts until they lose interest. I have yet to actually be bitten, but I still expect to have to reluctantly, but forcefully kick one of them if the occasion arises.

There is a small shop about half way down the road that has no signs or advertisements. Its peeling walls and door-less entryway hardly hint at it being a place where you could buy anything, but I stop there occasionally and order chocho. The bean salad gives me enough energy to finish my walk back to the hostel, and starts developing my appetite for dinner later on. The señora that makes the salad clearly does so with care, as it is always delicious, and presented as well, if not better, than as a chef would prepare it.

The entrance into the city is subtle. I still find dirt roads and mud brick houses, but the traffic increases and pavement and concrete mixes with the dirt and rocks of the other streets. Vendors appear on the sidewalks, and the incessant cacophony of honking taxis makes me eager to get off of the street. There is one particular fruit vendor who always grabs my attention. He has added a megaphone to his mobile fruit cart, and as he pedals around the city you can here his call. But his voice is so distorted from the megaphone, that he sounds like a ninety year-old smoker, exhaling a raspy, sick, advertisement to buy his fruits.

naranja-mandarinas-naranjas.

naranja-mandarina-naranjas.

The other venders fill the city with smells of cooking meat, and burning oil. If I am still hungry, I will buy an anticucho de corazón, grilled cow heart on a stick; or cachanga, deep fried dough; or a papa rellena, cooked potato with meat, egg, and vegetables stuffed inside. Each cost about thirty cents, and all are delicious.

The people in the city are a mix. The Quechua women wear traditional clothes: tall hats embroidered on the side with shapes of fans, or flowers; dresses which puff out to the side; white leggings; and bright pink or green sweaters. They carry rainbow colored sheets with them that are used to carry the goods they intend to sell in the city, or if not goods, then babies that accompany them, sleeping soundly despite the chaos of the streets. There are also business folk, dressed in suits and shiny shoes with finely combed hair and cell phones pressed to their ears. The mountain guides are easy to point out because they wear boots and fleece jackets. They make up enough of the population that they are a common site. The cosmopolitans are also out walking the streets in their name brand jeans and shirts with ironic English statements plastered across the front. There are beggars and snobs, gringos and natives. I often find beautiful women with olive colored skin, but they quickly pass, leaving me to daydream.

As I arrive to the center, I find more plazas and churches, shops, and signs of a more commercial culture. But regardless, I am an American in Perú, and the amount of learning and acculturation to be found is endless. No matter how many times I walk the road from Huanchac, I discover new experiences, meet new people, and am immersed in new things. It is a walk of discovery that I shall try to walk consciously, with eyes open and ears ready.