Peru Bus: praise of despair
The first trip was to last 20 hours, but it was extended to 36: first "hill he fell" -as they say in Peru when there is a shift of land-, then he fell another and then came the night, the tropical heat and despair.
My first coach trip I had to take to Lima a Chachapoyas, 1.200 kilometers beyond: one morning, one afternoon and one night aboard a comfortable vehicle, with reclining seats and wide, and a waiter who served us food and looked elegant but at the height of Chimbote He threw garbage lunch, with his remains, dishes and glasses of plastic-, on going, the wayside. Past kilometers and days and that act seemed to me the most everyday and even less when the immense river Marañón, in the Amazon jungle, a woman sank a television in the water.
I was carrying in the bag some luggage, little food and a book of Josep Pla, el premonitorio «Viaje en autobús»
I was carrying in the bag some luggage, little food and a book of Josep Pla, el premonitorio «Viaje en autobús», one-about story short stories- that are left on a trip, in full rainy season, by Peru. The Peruvian coast is a long strip food in the desert; then comes the sierra, with its winding roads and cars culebreo. And then comes the jungle: water, landslides, delays: torture.
We had driven many hours on the road and had not yet dawned, but the hill had already fallen. Shortly after the sky began to clear, The tropical heat was tightening-and we were stuck between the towns of Bagua and Pedro Ruiz- and the bus was stopped. At the bottom, the threat of dark clouds and the inhabitants of a small village, going out to sell their water bottles, your popcorn, its nuts and other entertainment of a stomach that had long not got anything to himself. Given that this was going to long, the tail of trucks, buses and cars was eternal, and the sun began to hit hard, I spread a blanket under a truck and went to sleep.
The queue of vehicles was eternal and the sun began to hit hard. I spread a blanket under a truck and went to sleep
Passed out, Flit turned off despair: for a few minutes. We jumped on vehicles, but fifteen minutes later, history repeated: again the endless queues, New operators, there at the bottom, cleaning the road. Again everyone on the street, speculating. Eighteen hours after the scheduled time, I arrived at my destination with back made a wire and rotting patience for a while.
This happened in the first part of a journey by land or almost all river- which lasted for six weeks kilometers and muddy roads. Some days after, the Huallaga River and the Maranon after first, They put me in Iquitos, where I was told to buy a airline ticket "in a serious company" to return to Lima. "Local often have delayed, They are more insecure and more informal ", I had been warned. I ignored, I bought-and pagué- travel safer, but when I got to the airport, after dark, to catch my flight back to the capital, I was told that my flight was canceled.
Eighteen hours after the scheduled time, I arrived at my destination with back made a wire
The local company, coming out minutes after, no problem taking off.
On paper, arriving overland Cuzco from Lima are 24 hours: comfortable buses, elegant young, Internet on board. On the road, hours may fall outside intemperate and haste of the traveler or concerns. Therefore, I preferred to come in an hour with one of those local companies that were delayed in theory and in practice arrive on time. Following that logic, and contradicting the theory that an alien will dock just outside the grounds of the airport-the Callao district, say, it is dangerous-, I arrived in a van to get on the plane and paying 30 times less than the cheapest taxi.
And I came to Cuzco to make this legendary city my next base, from where I would move here and there, van and bus, with and without delays. A Puerto Maldonado there -metido, 500 km, in a heat amazónico- I arrived on time after passing through the Interoceanic highway and early: of the Andean wind through the window blowing 5.000 meters high down to the sticky breath of the jungle.
At three o'clock cut traffic, half-buried mountain road and at ten o'clock and all desperate flitting
But back, after a few days prowling the region Mother of God, everything happened again, something typical of the rainy season and the "hill collapsed": to 3 morning traffic was cut, half-buried mountain road, with its stones the size of a car, their trees uprooted and a layer of mud on the road metro- medium and at ten o'clock, and all desperate flitting, one traveling companion told another that he had "spoiled the rim of the machine".
Machine that cleaned the road. More hours back, more sellers in tow with their ritual hawking, more patience taken some travelers booking. Eight or twelve hours direct to the board delays: nothing serious.
The maximum Pla, "Adventure is the flower, perfume chance and diversity ", It is embodied in each way
The maximum Pla ("Adventure is the flower, perfume chance and diversity ") It is embodied in each way road. During my stay in Peru there was a trail of deaths on the roads: a bus collided with another and killed dozens of people; another fell into a ravine with similar results. Other deaths were more silent, one by one, two at, small informal vans crushed by landslides and the popular voice or tabloids carried the cover with titles style "family tragedy".
Other routes are routine despite the vagaries of the road. For example, The bus put me on a night Ayacucho He had crawled over 3.000 meters in a few hours, so when I came down the stairs with headache did not know if it was the giddiness of a road that you pulled the seat, altitude sickness or the consequences of mosquito bites in the Amazon rainforest and its possible contagion.
A lady gave me the thermometer and gave me a pill, but the pain persisted, so I entered a kind of well-founded fear
Then, a lady that interviewed -victim of terrorism 80- year I put the thermometer and gave me a pill, but the pain persisted, so I entered a kind of well-founded fear and took the bus back that evening. More than 500 kilometers away were entertaining me: as a long summer nap rocked on a seesaw.
Comments (1)
mayte
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Very entertaining! I laughed a lot with the woman who sank a television in the water…
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