¿Dondé esta el aseo...err, el baño?
Last night I took a small pleasure from the wince of discomfort on the french restaurant owner’s face, when I handed him a 100 sole note, to pay for a < 20 sole meal. In changing my currency, he left himself almost devoid of change. Alas, he’d got me back first, and poisoned my pizza with a gastro so wicked it was to leave an indelible mark on me for the rest of the trip. For the next few days at least, the wonders of modern medical science would keep me afloat, but they were only ever a stop-gap measure, so to speak.
I woke with the first signs that things were about to turn bad for me, and I quickly popped some Gastro-Stop to firm up a loose bowel. Within a few hours, it was like I’d swallowed a bag of cement, just in time to travel much of the same bumpy road north of Huaraz, this time beyond Yungay to Caraz, and then up to Laguna Parón. The driver had built in a contingency to today’s price, just in case we met any more errant livestock, and bumped up the price to scrape the 200 sole ceiling. For me though, it was still worth it, especially if we got the weather we had yesterday.
Ever since seeing images of the mesmerising Artesonraju, I’ve been quite fixated with getting to this remote lake. Whilst day trips to Llanganuco were the norm, it’d been three years since the driver had last been asked to take anyone to Parón, and as we made the ascent, he frequently had to stop and ask for directions from locals working in the fields lining the dirt track, as numerous forks splintered off to reach the highland villages.
We passed more simple mud brick homes and tiny farm lots, coming to a stop at one point as the driver attempted to negotiate his way past a piglet that had ventured onto the road to sniff at the metal beast growling on the roadway. Behind it, two draught horses ran round and round in circles, raking recently harvested maize, and sending a cloud of fine dust drifting up the valley. An elderly farmer squinted at us through the dust cloud while his son touched the horses with a strop to keep them in stride. From low in the valley, a rudimentary aqueduct followed the road all the way back up the valley walls, leading to the ravines where it skims flows from the glacial blue rivers and streams that tumble drunkenly from the imposing frosted peaks above. From the roadway, the aqueduct spiders out across the patchwork fields where the farmers dig out a gash in the side of the earthen walls to flood their small lots for a time.
We rounded a corner and passed the schoolyard and buildings of a small village (I think, Pueblo Parón), and could see the vegetation of the peaks ahead of us was dramatically different. The farmland stopped suddenly and the slopes of the next range were wild and dense. The opening to a pass was visible ahead, a gaping wound in the mass of rock, where at some point a massive glacier had almost certainly gouged out the valley we were approaching. The road pulled higher, zig-zagging across the valley wall, making the descent to Chavín feel like a relatively straight forward route. On either side, sheer granite walls towered 1000ft above, and in numerous locations, the debris of landslides (relatively small by comparison to some of the ones that have occurred in this area) were constant reminders of how unstable the valley walls were.
Even at this altitude, the vegetation was far from being the type you’d expect in an alpine (or sub-alpine) region, with many plants having a closer resemblance to what you’d find in the lowland tropical regions of the world. The sun was fierce when it showed, but for the most part, it remained hidden between dense clouds that swirled around the pinnacles of the valley walls, and clearing for only a few moments to reveal patches of glaciated rock high above. Despite our considerable height above sea level at this point, it was obvious we could still go so much higher.
As we approached the massive earthen wall now controlling the waters of Parón, the sky closed over and by the time we reached the lakes edge, there was nothing but grey. We could clearly see the glaciers on the sides of Artesonraju, but alas, the jagged peak barely revealed itself as more than a faint silhouette against the grey of the sky. Of marked difference between here and Llanganuco, was the noticeable silence of Parón. There were just two other tourists at the lake when we arrived, and they left soon after. There was no encampment of campesinos trying to sell food to tourists, no infrastructure, and most importantly, no tourists. This was probably the closest we were going to get to the Peruvian wilderness for the trip. If only the weather had been more co-operative, I’d have had the killer shots to go with it.
I stood at the head of the lake for somewhere between 30 minutes and an hour, waiting for the cloud to clear, but eventually I resigned myself to not getting any of the images I’d imagined. Still, what I did get were worthy. The lack of a clear view of El Piramide (Artesonraju) led my attention to other areas of the lake and the surrounding valley, and although the peak is far and away the crowning feature, I could easily see myself coming back here for an extended period to photograph the flora of the lakes edges, as well as the peaks and slopes that drop abruptly into the water.
As my luck would have it, the further we went back down the valley, the sunnier it became, and by the time we re-emerged into the cultivated areas of the valley, the weather had cleared to a clear and sunny day. I was tempted to ask the driver to turn around and take us back up to the lake, but knew on looking back towards the valley that we’d just be going back up into clouds again. When we got back to the main road, the driver took us to a local eatery that included a large man-made pond, with a dining area in the middle. It had an air of being half complete“much like a lot of places in Peru”where the owners had grand plans to expand the place and really bring in the tourist dollar, but then ran out of money before being able to get it all finished off.
Perky music boomed across the lake from a PA system, making it difficult to fully engage in a conversation, yet curiously, the numerous geese perched on a small jetty were only disturbed when a family arrived and the children decided they wanted to go for a row on the pond. The food eventually arrived, and although nothing spectacular, it filled our bellies and was reasonably tasty. We paid the bills and got back on the road. Our bus to Trujillo was leaving in the early evening but we wanted to shower and have a rest before leaving, and we still had to get back to Huaraz.
As we passed the cemetery of Yungay, the driver announced we had a puncture and pulled over. After waiting for some time while he changed the tyre, we headed off again, but within a short period he stopped the car again, as the spare also had a puncture. At this point I wondered if we’d catch the bus (despite it still being a good 5 hours away), let alone be getting back to the guest-house for some rest. He must’ve been caught out by such misfortune once or twice before, as he had a second spare handy, and proceeded to change over the tires once more.
The tyre held until we arrived back in Huaraz, and I can honestly say my bones have never been more pleased to get out of a car than they were at this point. It was only on our return here that my mind truly returned to the gastro that had been brewing in my intestines. The drugs had kept everything settled, and at that point at least, I assumed I’d dodged a bullet. We went back to our room, which had been packed up—the bedding had been removed to prevent us using the beds properly, but to stop us using them at al, they’d have needed to remove the beds as well.
We slept for a few hours before settling the account and calling for a taxi. We arrived at the bus terminal well ahead of time, and watched as earlier services departed into the night. Eventually, the clock ticked over our departure time and we boarded, again in the front seats on the top deck. Once again, we’d booked seats that although usually prime, where probably not giving us any great advantage, aside from the extra leg room. Once again, we were making the transit in darkness and therefore were forced to miss the scenery of crossing the Cordillera Negra back to the coast.