In the lap of the gods
Walking with the mountain spirits of Peru's Cordillera
Blanca
For thousands of years the Peruvian people have revered
the mountains. To many they are the physical embodiment of powerful
gods, or Apus (pronounced ah-poohs); even the powerful
Inca worshipped them. It was considered the highest of honours for
a child to be marched to the top of a mountain and ritually sacrificed.
Archaeologists have discovered mummified bodies, along with offerings
of gold and silver, atop numerous peaks, as far away as Bolivia and
Argentina.
Standing in the plaza of the town of Huaraz, in the
central Peruvian Andes, the origin of these beliefs soon becomes clear.
A long chain of towering, snow capped peaks looms menacingly on the
horizon, standing arrogant and aloof over the valley, as if looking
with scorn upon the insignificant existences of the people who live
below. Some shine brightly in the midday sun, radiating a celestial
light over the valley. Others are shrouded in dark clouds, as if conspiring
in some malevolent deed. Each one has its own name, character and
attendant mythology - of tales of romance, struggle and death. It
is all reminiscent of the legend of Mt Olympus, where fickle Roman
Gods toyed with the lives of their people, casting down blessings
or punishments on a whim.
Huaraz lies in the heart of the Cordillera Blanca
(The White Mountains), one of the highest and most beautiful sections
of the Andes. It is also Peru’s climbing capital, a place whose
numbers alone are enough to make any alpinist’s mouth water.
The range contains the largest number of peaks over 20,000 ft outside
the Himalayas, including the 23,334 ft Huascarán, Peru’s
highest mountain. Ascents range from the super-technical, such as
Alpamayo and Huandoy, to the relatively easy glacier-walk up to the
18,900 ft summit of Pisco. For those not inclined to climb, hundreds
of miles of trails wind their way through an area that has been named
a UNESCO biosphere reserve, due to its unique flora, fauna, geology
and scenic beauty.
The area also has a rich cultural and archaeological
heritage. Running parallel to the cordillera is the Callejón
de las Huaylas, a fertile valley that is home to many traditional
agricultural communities.
Unlike
urban Peru, the pace of life here is still slow and simple. The landscape
is a multi-hued patchwork of fields - green flowering potatoes, tall
stalks of golden corn, the rich oranges and purples of ripening quinoa.
The warm, still air is sweet with pollen and filled with the chatter
of birds and buzzing of insects.
The Quechua people who inhabit the valley live life
as they have for centuries, still wearing their traditional dress.
The diminutive Quechua women have the look of overdressed dolls, piled
high as they are with layer upon layer of colourful woollen skirts,
intricately embroidered blouses and some seriously stylish millinery.
They waddle through the streets of every town, teetering under the
weight of their garments.
On the eastern side of the mountains lie the ruins
of Chavín de Huántar, the capital of a culture that
has been described by archaeologists as the, “womb of Andean
civilization”. Though the society reached its zenith between
900 and 200 BC, their metalworking and weaving techniques influenced
countless subsequent generations, including the Inca. The 17-acre
complex of temples, plazas, dotted with stylized stone carvings of
animals and gods, remains one of the most impressive ruins in Peru
today.
The nerve center of the valley is the town of Huaráz,
home to 80,000 people and capital of the department of Ancash. It
is a city with a long and difficult history, often beset by war and
disaster. The most recent of these, a 7.7 magnitude earthquake in
1970, destroyed eighty percent of the city and killed 30,000 people.
Yet, the residents have bounced back every time, and the city is booming
once again.
Huaráz is fast becoming the mountaineering
Mecca of South America, attracting climbers and trekkers from all
over the world. Today, the lively market places bustle with tourists
hunting for cheap crafts, such as colourful woolen ponchos or Andean
pan pipes. Restaurants, hotels, guide agencies and equipment stores
line the main street.
Whether you are a hardened climber or a pleasure
hiker, there is no better place to experience the majesty of the Andes.
The Cordillera Blanca has something for people of every level of experience
and ability. Bus tours depart daily for the dramatic turquoise lakes
of the Llanganuco Valley, or the ice caves of Pastoruri. Hardened
trekkers can enjoy an 11-day odyssey through the remote Cordillera
Huayhuash. No matter where you go, the majestic sweep of the Andes
will astound you.
I am no climber, but I wanted a little adventure.
So, with the aid of a Huaráz guide agency, I joined an international
group (British, Canadian and Brazilian) for the popular four day circuit
through the Santa Cruz Valley. Our guide was a seasoned Peruvian mountain
man who could casually describe the ascent of every 20,000 ft peak
in the area. Accompanying him was a poncho-clad, one-eyed mule driver
who had the look of an evil cowboy from an old western movie. Together,
we set off to sample some of the finest scenery the region had to
offer.
From
the moment we approached the entrance to the Santa Cruz Valley, high
above the small village of Cashapampa, it was obvious that this was
going to be something special. A sparkling stream of pure glacial
water flowed from a narrow canyon of black rock, creating a little
oasis of dense ferns and purple flowering bushes. Pigs from the town
below foraged in the lush grass. Above them, sweetly scented eucalyptus
trees swayed gently in the breeze. Higher up, the river became a torrent;
cascading down over smooth white boulders, filling the canyon with
the soothing sound of rushing water.
We climbed for the better part of a day, picking
our way over rock debris that had fallen from the walls above and
choking on the dust kicked up by our mules. It was tough going in
the noonday sun. Conversation quickly ended as breath became short
and sweat beaded on every brow. Even the lowest points of the valley
were at over 10,000 ft, and the altitude was taking its toll. By the
time we had left the canyon and entered the valley proper, it was
late afternoon and we were all ready for a rest.
We spent our first, bitterly cold night on the banks
of the Santa Cruz River, waking to ice covered tents and some very
unhappy looking mules. No one was in the mood for an early start.
We sat in our sleeping bags and shivered over hot cups of coca tea
until the friendly face of the sun finally broke over the mountains.
Once fully defrosted, we set off at an easy pace.
The valley was wonderfully peaceful. The river snaked lazily through
a carpet of lush green grass. Waterfalls cascaded down from glaciers
high above, feeding a string of alpine lakes that studded the valley
floor like an emerald necklace. Forests of tall wildflowers grew beside
the river, the strangest of which shot up tall purple antennae to
the sky in truly extra-terrestrial fashion. It was a place of exceptional
beauty and serenity, a Garden of Eden protected within a high mountain
fortress.
We
ate lunch on the soft grass among a small stand of pine trees. High
above us, the jagged glacier of Alpamayo shone brilliantly in the
midday sun. Squinting through my sunglasses, I could just about make
out the tiny silhouettes of climbers picking their way up the face
of the mountain. They looked so insignificant beneath that great mountain.
The tiniest of forces could have swept them away in an instant.
For a second, I wished I could be up there with them;
that I could know how it felt to stand humble beneath such mountain.
However, as my guide handed me another sandwich and the warm sun caressed
my face, I realized that I was happy where I was.
By the end of the day, we had reached the head of
the Santa Cruz Valley. The chill of night descended and the last rays
of sun painted the mountains with warm oranges and reds. The jagged
peaks licked the velvet sky like mile-high flames, momentarily trapping
us in an icy inferno. But the conflagration was short-lived. Its rocky
embers slowly faded to purple and blue, before disappearing into darkness.
We slept beneath the imposing figure of Mt Taulliraju
- a 19,000 ft giant, shaped like an enormous head and shoulders, that
dominated the valley. For two days, it had watched our progress, and
now there was no escaping its intimidating gaze.
The following morning, we set out along a gruelling
succession of switchbacks leading to the pass high on Taulliraju’s
left shoulder, bringing us closer and closer to the head of mountain.
Every detail in its surface was clearly visible - narrow crevices,
thousands of feet long, stretched along its skin like wrinkles; huge
masses of rock protruded through the thick ice sheets, like the features
on a face. All the while it grew larger before us, until finally we
could see little else.
As I struggled up the last
few feet to the pass, I realized that I had been giving all my attention
to what lay ahead. Turning around, I came upon a sight that took my
breath away.
Two immense mountain chains stretched out before
me, reaching far beyond my vision. The campsite where we had stayed
last night and the village where we had started the hike were just
tiny specks beneath me. All was silent and still. I felt like I was
in a world beyond the realm of man. A world where millennia pass in
the blink of an eye and the duration of my life was no more significant
than a grain of sand in an hourglass. I finally understood why the
Peruvian people have such reverence for the mountains. Where else
could I be, but in the lap of the gods.
