RECEIVE LINK UPDATES VIA EMAIL
Crowder Publications
P.O. Box 62921 Phoenix, Arizona 85082-2921
Phone:602-957-3741
Huascaran National Park Peru
by
Corine J. Quarterman
High in the Cordillera Blanca, some 8 hours by bus from Lima, our Odyssey was to take us to Yungay, the site of the mud slide that buried the whole town in 1970. Disaster struck as a result of a massive earthquake that caused a section of glacier to break off the majestic Huascaran, towering over the valley at almost 21,00 feet, and tumble down the mountain, creating a mud slide as it worked its way down the mountain, burying the town and killing an estimated 50,000 people. Memories are short and most people have no recollection of the event, yet in the minds of the few survivors, this tragedy lives on. A new town has been built a little to the north, protected by a hill and out of the path of the 1970 avalanche which is still clearly visible.
We had no means of getting to Huarez, the main town in the area, during our recognizance trip, but the airport built for disaster relief in 1970 was more than suitable for the Catalina. We left Lima late, much later than planned, due to a series of canceled flights and a group of missing contestants. When we flew into the valley towards the airport in the Santa Valley, it was nearing dusk and the orange glow reflecting off the stark mountain peaks was awe inspiring. Dusk is short in the mountains and I hoped that we would make it sagely in the last shadows of lingering daylight. That moment, more than any before, did I truly understand why the indigenous people revere the mountains as gods.
We made it and landed safely at this 9,000 foot elevation on a perfectly maintained asphalt strip and otherwise nothing. A small welcoming committee whisked us off to the Hostal Andino, a wonderfully comfortable place, run efficiently by a German guy and his Peruvian wife.
Early the following morning, we loaded two small buses for the trip to Yungay, where the producer had lined up a series of people to be interviewed by our contestants. The main road runs roughly north/south through some of the most spectacular scenery in the world. On our right, the snow-capped peaks of the Cordillera reflected the early morning sun with glaring brightness, on our left, the farmed land sloped away gently like gigantic patchwork blankets, before disappearing into deep valleys. We met with the major and several other officials in the town plaza, before we split up into different groups to pursue the assigned missions. I stayed with my two Dutch charges and followed our guide and film crew to a small adobe house at the edge of town. At the invitation of a middle-aged woman, we crowded into the main room of the house. The room had little to offer besides a table, a few chairs, and a refrigerator in the far corner. The occupant’s treasures were not in furniture, but in the amazing collection of books, all neatly lines up on shelves along the wall to my right. As introductions were made, I studied the back of the books and noted that at least five languages were represented. The woman was one of the survivors of the 1970 disaster and related with tears in her eyes, the horror that overtook the town without warning and in a matter of less than an hour; too little time to flee for many. For all the people we spoke with, the memories were still vivid, the pain still visible, twenty-five years later. And at the same time, there seemed to be a prevailing sense of acceptance. I asked the woman how they managed to continue to live here without bitterness. She looked up at me, puzzled at my questions, for surely everyone understood such basic matters, and answered, ‘the mountains provide, the mountains take. this time they took a lot. Maybe to punish us for not honoring the land like we used to.’ It was stated matter-of-factly, accepted as part of living and dying. Then she asked if I wanted to see more. Before I could answer, he trotted off towards the refrigerator and brought our a bundle of papers and photos, carefully wrapped in linen. So that what the fridge was there for- a storage place for valuables. With great interest, we studied the momentos from another town, another life, and shared in a small way in her loss and that of the whole town.
As accepting as the survivors were, their ability to apply themselves to rebuilding and the future was just as evident. While the house seemed to be without electricity, the noise coming from another part of the house suggested otherwise. As the conversation shifted from the past to the present, the lady noticed our attention was being drawn to the sound of loud rock music coming from the rear of the house. She beckoned us to follow and introduced us proudly to her son, born shortly after the disaster, now a local disk jockey and owner of the local radio station, run from one of the little rooms in the back of the house. This little operation was as modern as any, wires and loudspeakers everywhere. No lack of electricity, just no particular interest in it, unless there was a need or a purpose.
We reconvened in the plaza for a visit to the memorial site, the barren remains of the mud slide with four stunted palm trees marking the original location of the town plaza. Local people have begun to erect monuments to commemorated their lost relatives. Rose bushes have been planted. Clearly visible is the site of the school where hundreds of small children were buried, caught unaware in the middle of play. It’s the eeriest feeling to walk around on the site. On the one hand, in the face of such disaster, there is an overwhelming feeling of reverence, a feeling of insignificance, a feeling of great admiration for the people who survived with such pride an perseverance. And at the same time, I could not shake the feeling that I was walking on top of a whole town, covered like Pompeii in Italy, with all the people in it, caught unaware, in the middle of that they were doing. I looked around me-was I the only one who felt that it was inappropriate, even sacrilege, to be stomping around here? It was haunting, and as much as the site captivated me, I was glad when it was time to leave.
We piled back on our two little buses and headed for the cause of all the damage, the Huascaran and the Llanganuco Lakes. Slowly the buses worked their way along the winding dirt road up the mountain, higher, and higher. the mountains are so impressive, so huge, they look close by ant at the same time, as one travels towards them, they seem to move, out of reach, untouchable. After each hairpin turn, the expansive views over fields and valleys became more spectacular as we gained height. It was early afternoon and the sun stood high and was surprisingly warm. As we ascended, the growth got sparser, the rocky terrain more pronounced, and then all of a sudden, we entered a narrow valley and the first of tow lakes, Chignon Coach, lay in front of us, flanked on both sides by the steep mountain walls that define the narrow valley, and the distant views beyond that, out into the Santa Valley. In the foreground, at the edge of the lake, pine trees bent and stunted by the wind with strange reddish bark, offer a perfect frame to the picture. The price for this extravagant beauty was hefty. It was fiercely cold. The wind was howling through the narrow passage at the entrance of the valley and the warmth of the sun seemed to have been left behind somewhere at the point where the trees stopped. The incredible and magnificent beauty of the place won. We all pulled out T-shirts a little tighter and braved the wind. I walked up the hill a bit to admire a small shrub with bright red flowers, and marveled how this even had a chance here in such a hostile environment.
Back in the buses, we continued on along the dirt road, and traveled further into the valley which got narrower. The road ended on the far side of the second lake, Orcon Cocha. Here the wind was not as forceful and we walked around the far side of the lake to the very end of the valley. A small meadow marked the vase of the glacier which towered another 3,000 feet above us. It almost looked inviting if I had not known how devastatingly menacing these mountains can be, not only for the destructive loss the town of Yungay suffered, but for the many lives they claimed of unsuspecting climbers, lured by their obvious beauty. My personal insignificance was emphasized by the power of these mountains and while there was no wind for a moment, a cold shudder ran through me. Was it fear, intimidation? I suspect it was the imposing power of nature that permeated my soul. It was again so easy to understand the godlike significance the indigenous people attribute to these mountains. There was a magnetism in the air that captivated everyone and we lingered, everybody caught up in their own private experience. With a good two hour trip back t Huaraz, we needed to leave before we ran out of daylight. A superb and varied dinner, followed by a colorful folk dance show, crowned the day.
The second day in Huaraz had been scheduled for a visit to the ruins of Chavin de Huantar. Because of the flight delays in Lima, we lost a whole day and a half and we never made it to Chavin. Even on a subsequent visit to Peru, the closest I got to Chavin was the impressive reconstructed parts and chambers in the National Museum in Lima. The main temple was constructed between 1,000 and 200 BC and excavation started as recently as 1984. Original treasures form the temple complex, the Tello Obelisk and the Estelda Raymondi, both magnificently carved granite blocks, are beautifully displayed in the museum does afford the luxury of careful and detailed inspection under adequate lighting. Three deities are representing the underworld, the celestial heavens and the earth. The sophistication of the Chavin culture is evident not only in the carvings, but also in the recently found burial artifacts. The Chavin are thought to have influenced the Paracas and Nazca and Mocha cultures, because of the similarities found in the ceramics.
Ever since I discovered that Peru’s cultural heritage doesn’t start and stop with the Inca, I have been fascinated by the pre-Inca cultures. Every time I visit Peru, I discover more cultures, distinctly different and fascinating in their own right. It’s as if the mind stops taking in the information when it reaches a saturation point. Only after I have allowed the information to settle, and after I have supplemented my newfound interest in a culture with more background and information, then I’m able to move to the next level. Chavin is a strong motivation to go back. So are the many trekking trails I heard about in the Huascaran National Park and surrounding areas, many leading to lesser ruins, and who knows, new cultures.
Corine J. Quarterman is a freelance writer and travel consultant. She can be reached at P.O. Box 322 Londonberry, VT 051480
Email: ceque@sover.net