Tales of the DreamCrusher: Perú is the world's biggest waterpark

St. Hacksaw Jim Duggan

A couple of days on the road and I'm pretty much soaked to the bone. I didn't count on my top of the line North Face clothing to be as permeable as a screen door when it comes to the weather down here. Because of this, I flew into Huancayo smelling like hot piss-urine and no one wanted to talk to me until I had stripped down to my skin tight hot pants, and even then, the only folks that approached me were leacherous old farts wanting to grab my legs. Why do they think I'm so easy?

Iglesia de la Compañia de Jesus

The Perù leg started off with a little bit of cheating, and would continue with more cheating further down the road. So, my journey in this country started in Cusco, one of the oldest cities in South America and pre-dating Oakland by a good millenia, give or take. It is a city quite literally built on the bones of ancients. Before Christians came to ruin everything in South America with their rock n roll and moist towellettes, and before the Incans got everyone addicted to coke, the Killke folks were the first to lay down stones in the mountain valley. Since then, Cusco's pretty much served as a preschool lego box, with every subsequent little snot bulldozing everything down and building up a new edifice as an afront to the previous caretakers. The Incans ripped down the walls of the Killke to make their Sun Temple. The tradition was carried on my those cooky Christians who simply had to bust down every last piece of heathen stone to make way for some fancy cathedrals that are probably not nearly as cool as the blood-soaked carcass-littered courtyards that graced the landscape of the city long before.

Incan blocks in Cuzco

The Superbowl was celebrated in two English pubs in Plaza de Armas, where we few Americans were thoroughly embarassed by the spectacle of white southern trash and military jingoism that we call an opening ceremony, and the reaction amongst our fellow bar patrons not of American blood can only be described as slightly amused horror, as if they were watching Hitler's Olympics. Why are we still celebrating failed military interventionism before every game and letting all these platinum blonde aryan country hicks stand up in front of a world wide audience as if to serve as ambassadors of American culture? And people wonder why one of the greatest inventions to come out of our great nation is not catching on in the rest of the world? Get those goddamn rednecks off the TV and let Project Pat MC the whole event, with Millions of Dead Cops singing the shat spackled banner. That's my America, and that's the America that the rest of the world can appreciate.

High in the clouds

The day after that fiasco, I was finally back up on the bike and diarrhea free, but the first day of travelling in a week was not without complications. The more I ascended, the harder and heavier the rain came. And of course the temperature at every peak has to take a dramatic nosedive towards wintery levels. To top it off, and as mentioned before, my supposed waterproof clothes were soaking in everything like a sponge and I had to keep moving and grinding hard in order to keep the ol body temperature up. This turned out to be a problem when it came to the hairpin descents that would soon define the first and last legs of each of my daily rides through Southern Peru thus far. The roads have been incredibly slick with mud, oil, and water, rendering my downhill portions alot slower and alot less fun then they should be. To top it off, by the time finally hit the lush, humid rainforests at every basin, I'm pretty much a human popsicle.

Above Abancay

If that wasn't enough, I also discovered that the only safe place for all of my electronics were my air-tight panniers. Double wrapping your camera in garbage bags and stuffing it in your "water-proof" waist bag is not enough in this wet environment. Everything is going to get soaked, and if you're not carefull with your fragile electric goods, your junk is going to get ruined. Somewhere between Limatambo and Abancay, my camera was rendered somewhat useless even though it was double bagged and safely stowed beneath my saddle. It was no use. The weather gets to everything out here in time.

And while my map assured the roads between Cusco and Ayacucho were navigable and safe, the constant rain was turning everything into a dangerous mudslick that threatened to swallow the steed each and every time I descended into the low lying valleys close to the rivers. Some of these roads near the rain-swollen rivers were turning into barely rideable creeks, especially on the roads right after Ayacucho. All these obstacles once again led to some cheating on my part, as I was compelled to hitch a ride 40 km's outside Ayacucho all the way to Huancayo. It would be my first voyage in a hauler that did not require an Ol' Fashion on my behalf.

Which brings me to my next point: the great folks of this magnificent land. Not since Argentina have I come across a group of folks so consistently amiable and willing to help with whatever questions or needs I may have. In Bolivia, folks were always telling me to get lost, deliberately giving me wrong directions, or trying to sell me their baby's shit wipe for 20 bolivars. While I'm still a gringo to a lot of people in Perú, the folks down here call me "young one'" (joven) more often than not, which is a really kind way of calling out to strangers in my opinion. Folks are once again opening up their doors to me at night and letting me crash in their living rooms or balconies as long as their five and ten year olds are allowed to kick my ass well into the night. Thanks to all this hospitality, my wet cloths are more or less dry by the morning and I'm good for another day in the rain and cold. If it wasn't for all this friendleness, I'd be at a loss as to how to survive this leg of the journey.

I was dropped off in Huancayo early on Saturday, and as soon as I enquire about a place to stay at the local firestation, the firefighters drag me half way across town to a paved soccer field to play some of the most hard hitting soccer since high-school. Now, when I was staying in Córdoba, I had to play with Germans and Argentinians, an international rivalry I didn´t think anyone could top in terms of competitiveness. Oh but how wrong I was. When these friendly, happy Peruvian folks start playing soccer against each other, they enter a state of mind that can only be described as an innate desire to murder each others families. Elbows were thrown, noses were bloodied, and at least one tooth was lost during the short sixty minutes of game time in which I participated. Upon witnessing the ferocity and fire in the eyes of my teammates, I was pretty much cowed to the goalie position, which was probably for the best seeing that I had no footwear save for sandles. When our game was over, their fiery tenacity instantly dissapated over some cold beers, and everyone went back to accusing each other of being gay or screwing old cholitas or whatever, but it was all in good fun. The last game of the day was for the really old guys, and watching these guys play was like watching sixteen Moe's and Curly's play surprisingly good but nevertheless slapstick soccer. Lot's of comical sliding around and running into eachother. Good times? Amazing times.