You heard about the guy from Chicago who got made Pope? He was from northern Peru actually, at least that’s what what they say around here. He spent decades ministering to the poorest Peruvians in the northern part of the country and I was told yesterday he was known for riding the Andes on horseback to reach the remotest communities. You don’t have to go remote to see poverty in Peru, it lines the PanAmerican Highway.
But I’ll tell you we had a brilliant day yesterday driving a few hours to Arequipa in our 276 horsepower van. The weather was perfect, sunny and around 80 degrees, no wind, a smooth road mostly and lots of pleasant friendly people.
Last night after we ate a delicious Indian dinner delivered to our campground in Arequipa I sat back full of lamb, biriyani and naan and had a brain fart as you do. “Where did we start the day?” I asked Layne as one day tends to blend into the next in this weird nomad life, and she reminded me we had camped for the night in the Peruvian wilderness. So we had.
The vast emptiness of the Atacama Desert stretching into Peru. The Pacific coast to southern Ecuador is desert, something I never knew but I do now. I’ve driven it and so have you.
This isn’t Chile with paved pull outs, hot showers at truck stops and ambulances stationed along the highway. Peru is poor. A few weeks ago 13 miners were murdered in the north of the country, the Pope’s old stomping ground. It was some sort of dispute over turf and they were kidnapped and shot by a gangster who has now been caught and is awaiting extradition from Colombia. The Prime Minister was forced to resign to salve public outrage and the unpopular President already under fire for rising crime rates has appointed a new prime minister to solve the crime problem. No one expects that to change much in Peru.
None of that matters here in the south two thousand miles away where Team Lost was riding into town with an empty fridge after the customs inspection at the border. Clearly we had groceries to buy but we also had tires to rotate. Luckily there was an oasis on our route with all necessary facilities.
Get yourself a flowing river and suddenly the desert turns into the green and pleasant land you haven’t seen in what feels like forever.
And here we are dodging slow moving three wheelers again, characteristic of Peru, this one hauling a water tank.
The light was terrible but in the haze you can see cows standing around in a banquet of grass.
And always the back drop of the desert.
I like to keep the tank full and we stopped to add eight gallons of regular at $4 a gallon, much better than the $5:30 in Chile but around here the gas stations are only partially paved, the least they can get away with. You’ve got to wonder what kind of oil company won’t give its customers a few extra feet of dust suppressing cement.
And we are back in the land of the US gallon. Everything else is sold by the liter but this mysterious measurement relic from an ancient past still holds sway in gas stations. 3.78 liters though I doubt many customers can do the conversion. I’ve asked and they look puzzled. You just buy gas by the “galone.” What it is they don’t know. It could just as easily be called a furlong, or a bushel or an ounce.
The city of Moquegua (“mo-kay-waah”) spreads out up the valley and at the furthest end there is a fully equipped tire shop ready to rotate our tires for five bucks and they used a torque wrench to tighten our lug nuts, which is the only proper way. Good work.
Meanwhile Leandros the taxi driver was having his cab’s wheels aligned ably assisted by five year old Samuel his youngest of four children. He could not compute how Layne and I were happy being child free. He did appreciate Rusty though.
It was a very pleasant interlude chatting cheerfully with an alert happy Peruvian. Hmm, this isn’t how I recall Peruvians at all. Grumpy dour lot in Arequipa.
The vast spacious parking lot was half empty on a Saturday afternoon so I parked on the edge of the lot and while Layne went to the supermarket I walked Rusty. Banks, a Home Depot clone, ice cream parlor, hair dresser, the usual mix of stores. And warnings about taking care of your bicycle if parked here.
And wouldn’t you know it someone parked right next to us. But I out smarted them by putting our side door on the end of the row so madam would have easy access to her shopping cart as she selected items for me to hand up to her. Personal space is an unknown concept in Latin America.
All the world is the same fundamentally, supermarkets are everywhere, lots of colors and bright lights and lines of people. The check out crew were full of smiles too asking about where we were from and acting goofy. Layne and I were puzzled wondering if everyone in Peru gets free laughing gas nowadays. Last year I couldn’t get a smile even if I tried to beat it out of passers by. Lovely this, but weird.
They have the best junk food and snacks at the check out. Layne is immune but she did get a few extra ramen packets. I wanted the chocolate sandwich cookies.
With four hours till dark we bought empanadas and ate on the road working our way back to the PanAmerican. Arequipa was more than a hundred miles away and the road winds through canyons to get there. We now have local knowledge.
There are long straight stretches and we were doing 60 on some of them. Driving after dark is not safe like in Chile, as livestock pedestrians unlighted bicycles and potholes all lie in wait to snag you in this country.
A diesel powered Peugeot Jumper, a clone on the exterior of our Promaster.
This is some business headquarters, a mine or a distribution center or something, but crudely out of actual brick.
Even the attendant at the tollbooth had a smile and a cheery greeting totally unsolicited when we passed through.
15.70 soles for two axles is $4:25. The toll booths pop up randomly along the highway. I think we went through two yesterday.
Truck stops are where you find them, much less organized than Chile.
Where there is water there is agriculture. And it’s lovely to see.
The specks are blown garbage.
Peruvian drivers are notorious for incompetence or irrational exuberance depending on your point of view. I anticipate crashes all the time and hang back to give myself room to stop. So far so good but you can sense the impatience of these two below:
Toilets and showers on offer under the mileage chart. We have hot showers waiting in Arequipa happily.
¡Ahora! Save! Buy a Nissan from Peru Motor.
Summer vacations in your cabin. Contrast and compare with the hovels we’ve been driving by.
Oh and the notorious roadside trash. Most visitors to Peru don’t get to see this filth.
To keep the tourists happy they have functioning trash collection in the Sacred Valley and major tourist sites but out here in the rest of Peru seen by overlanders and locals of course, trash is just part of the scenery.
Where there are humans there is garbage and near any community you’ll see this:
Alongside public service billboards suggesting we keep our water clean …to help development…
…or to protect the ones we love.
Through the tunnel we could see our destination.
It’s odd being in a familiar place thus knowing where we are going.
After nine months away in Patagonia we are back.
And we bought some roadside pork rinds to celebrate. He seemed glad to see us, a random roadside vendor. Peru is happier than I remember.
Enough pork rinds for you?
To roadside shop you just put on your four way flashers and stop. Stressful road manners for a gringo but it works.
We are planning excursions but we will be here for a few weeks waiting for my new passport.
Rusty won’t mind at all.
Sean from Colorado and Isadora from Florianopolis are leaving but we got to chat and they are a lovely couple. Their Sprinter van is old but their love is new and they are off to surf the north coast of Peru for a while before returning to Brazil. We hope we will see them again.
Time to plug into shorepower, take a hot shower and order Indian food to be delivered. Next week Machu Picchu.
