Perhaps it’s not the best idea to read a book which opens with the line “This wasn’t a country you would visit unless you had to,”* when you start off on your first deepest, darkest Peruvian adventure. Let’s be clear about this – for me any journey in Peru, however near or far, is a feat for me. Just taking the nerve-jangling ‘kombi’ shortens my predicted life span by a couple of hours. Yes, it’s not about the destination, it’s the journey stuff but never more so than in Peru; figuring out where to start, where you’ll end up and what you should hold onto. My first foray into how-to-get-around-and-see-stuff started in a steaming, oil-drenched, dirt backyard of sorts. A bus station only in the loosest sense of the word. People queuing with resigned babies, bulging bags, a birthday cake sweating in the sun. Don’t they sell cakes wherever we're going?
Fresh-eyed and anticipating adventure, I politely inquired “So where do we buy a ticket?” No pre-purchase required, just waiting. A lot of scorched waiting. I tried to figure out the system; busses kept rolling in, stirring up more dust, avoiding hitting potential passengers and stray dogs. They hesitated, people streamed on and busses roared off again. The overall mood was of bubbling holiday excitement.
Two hours later we had our grubby seats. The fare was minimal but completing a rudimentary control form in case of a crash didn’t exactly calm me. Visions of mangled limbs being matched to ID numbers illustrated the repeated warning that the Pan American Norte is one of the most lethal roads in Peru.
Safe arrival in coastal town confirmed; next travel sequence initiated. As a non-Spanish speaker I felt like an out-of-my-depth observer, trailing my friends, keeping my tendencies to book a luxury bus tour at bay. Wandering depressing backstreets, trying to track down a ‘collectivo’ - this was alarmingly like one of those ‘tourist abducted, organs carved out, wakes up bandaged in seedy motel’ movie opening sequences. In real life, pretty efficient, informal method of getting folk from A to B, at warp speed. Advice – go with someone who knows the plot and hang back while the negotiations are underway.
Arrival at oldest South American civilisation confirmed; time for more recognizable transport - a horse ride accessorized with brightly woven saddle blanket. Now I was in my element, this I can handle in any language. The brief riverbank ride was extended after much debate between my young horse-leading chap and an official-looking guy. Seems blondes can’t possibly trek through the desert on foot, so we rode the whole way, braved the rickety, make-shift bridge, tipped my negotiator and arrived like celebrities. We had conquered the wind-swept sands of Caral in style, journeying over hill and valley to wander around what had been unearthed. My mouth dusty, red-eyed from hay-fever, but marvelling, triumphant. Glad I had to.
* “The Lost City” by Henry Shukman
