Day 1 Lima

I left Gainesville at 12:00. Got to Orlando in record time at about 1:30
PM (It normally takes 2 1/2 hours to get there). The American Airlines
agents were friendly and were really happy for me that I was going to
Peru for the first time (they happened to be from Ecuador - a country
that has been on the brink of war with Peru for years.) Upon arrival in
Miami The flight didn't seem too long as I slept nicely. As I filed out,
a woman came to me speaking rapid, unintelligible Spanish. I asked her
to repeat what she had said, but I still didn't understand her.
Magically, she hurried me out without having to go through customs. I
thought to myself, look at all those suckers standing in line. Charlie
Munn, the founder of Inka Natura, and his sidekick Rodrigo Custodio met
me outside. Charlie greeted me with two bottles of Cristal, one of
Peru's national brews. I was taken through the brightly lit avenues of
Lima's casinos and chicken joints to my hotel. I was anxious to see some
of the city, so donned my bomber jacket and set out on one of the main
streets in Miraflores. One of the first things I noticed was that I was
taller than most of the people on the street. Since I had to catch an
early flight to Chachapoyas, I went back to the room and watched the
cult classic Evil Dead, dubbed in Spanish on cable.

Day 2 Chachapoyas

I was picked up by the Inka Natura driver. In the van were Alex Herrera,
a Peruvian-German doctoral student in archaeology and Tatiana Laurence,
an ornithology specialist.
We arrived at the airport to meet the group. I immediately found the
small group of gringos, along with the leader, Paul Beaver, in the
corner of the main hall. There were no agents at the government-run
Grupo Aereo Ocho counter, the only airline that handles flights to that
area. We eventually learned that the flight was to be delayed until
11:00 PM, so we went to the house of an associate of the leader, Paul.
We ate breakfast, drank coca tea and slept. 

The flight finally left at about 1:30 PM. The plane was a vintage Soviet
passenger aircraft purchased during the reign of the leftist military
dictator General Velasco in the 1960s. The seats were very small, and
the stewardess demonstrated the use of an oxygen mask, but there was no
place for the to fall down from! We flew up the coast and saw many
interesting rocky islands below. Lunch was a tasty meat pie and a
star-shaped cookie.

We arrived in Chachapoyas an hour and a half later. it was an airstrip
atop a flattened mountain. In the building we had to register out
passport numbers with the AK-47-toting police.An old Chevy truck pulled
up to our bus with all the luggage in the bag, and everyone lent a hand
with loading it onto the bus. We drove through the lively town of
Chachapoyas and down into the bumpy dirt roads of the countryside.On
board Paul Beaver passed out slices of Pitihaya, the fruit of a regional
cactus that is very sweet and also, as some found out later, a
diarrhetic. As it as the sun began to set, we passed over a river and
along some cliffs. We were gathered around in a circle and the guide
Peter Lerche gave a short talk about the ruins of Macro which occupied
the cliffs above. The itinerary planned a visit, but the darkness
changed that. We really couldn't make out much.

The bus slowly wound uphill and passed through the deserted village of
Tingo, wiped out in a flood a few years back. The inhabitants had since
picked up and moved up the hill to Nuevo Tingo, where the only light was
sole generator-powered television flickering in the central hut of the
village. My right contact lens fell out, and the hired hands on board
were eager to hold a mirror and flashlight in front of my face as I
tried to put it back in.

At the village of Choctamal we stopped at our lodge. It was clean, cold,
simple and made of mostly concrete blocks. On the balcony upstairs we
cound see the outline of Kuelap on the mountain in the far distance.
There were a few scattered lights in houses across the valley and
surrounding mountains. The full moon shone down through the clouds,
illuminating the valley beautifully. It was rather cold, and Hans from
Tampa pitched his tent on the green below the lodge. (He told me the
next day that local dogs kept him awake barking outside his tent.)

Day 3 Kuelap

We set off in the bus to Kuelap. The winding journey took over an hour,
even though it was touted as a 20-minute trip. Peruvian time usually
turns out to be two to three times the stated length, whether walking,
on horseback, or in a vehicle. Inge, a 66 years young Californian who
deals in rare plants and seeds, insisted that the bus stop so she could
photograph a palm tree not known to exist in Peru. This happened
wherever we drove in the bus. "Oh, vee must schtop for ziss one." She
came to the United States in 1962, about the time of the building of the
Berlin Wall. She told me she was forced to be a member of the Hitler
Jugend.

In spite of its remoteness, Kuelap has a parking lot. The road to Kuelap
was built in the early 1980s. Our group were the only tourists that day.
Kuelap averages about one or two small groups of 3 to 8 people per day
during the months of June, July and August. Machu Picchu, by contrast,
hosts anywhere from 300 to 600 visitors a day, and last June 24,1000
people were granted admission to the Inca citadel.

We trod up the stone staircase to the fortress. Since it is hundreds of
years old, much of it is jagged rubble or simply buried. I started to
feel the effects of the altitude on my lungs, and breathed heavily as I
hiked up the zigzag path. After about twenty minutes of huffing and
puffing, we spotted a brick wall about 50 feet above us, running
parallel with the path. I shouted out with glee. This wasn't part of the
fortress, but merely remains of a wall running along the top of the
ridge leading to the fortress. 

It was still early, about 6:30 AM. The morning dew covered the grass and
trees. The path became flat, and large, irregular rocks appeared in it.
After hopping over them, we saw it. I will not forget my first glimpse
of those massive walls in the morning light. Over 60 feet high, the
outside walls of the Kuelap fortress were at one time much higher,
evidenced by the number of displaced building stones in front of them.
All of us stopped to snap pictures or started running towards the walls.

We were met by Jose Portocarrero, better known as the caretaker of the
fortress. He is a local who was born just a couple of hundred yards from
the ruins, he watches out for it and offers simple accommodations for
hikers visiting Kuelap. He spoke with Peter Lerche a while, gossiping
about relatives and accentuating parts of the conversation by pointing
at various mountains.

We made our way up into the main entrance. About eight feet wide at the
mouth, the steep and slippery path upward narrows to where only one
person can squeeze through to enter the main courtyard. This would make
invaders easy to take out, one at a time. In the center of the courtyard
was a large rectangular building, with what looked like a altar on top.
We climbed up it and in the back of the structure, we found some loose
stones. We removed them and found a human leg bone and part of a hip
bone!

There are about 480 structures inside of Kuelap. The vast majority are
circular constructions in the typical Chachapoyas style. They are
adorned with two types of friezes: serpentine and "jaguar eyes."

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According to Peter Lerche, the serpentine design is feminine, and
symbolizes war and agriculture, and the "jaguar eyes" is masculine. A
good number of the structures have been cleaned up, but many still lie
covered in dirt and vegetation. Most of them have a hearth, grindstone,
and drainage rut.

Generally, there is a paucity of any other kind of inscriptions in the
fortress. On some of the stone blocks there is a curious round face as
well as the odd monkey silhouette. The stonework doesn't really compare
to the masonic feats of the Inca stone workers at Sacsayhuaman or
Ollantaytambo, but Kuelap dwarfs just about anything else on the South
American continent due to its sheer size.

On the northern tip of the fortress is the Torreon, a 35 foot high
lookout accessed by a narrow and steep staircase. From there we had a
dizzying outlook on the surrounding mountains.

At the southern end of the complex lies the most peculiar structure,
known as the Tintero, or inkwell. It's about 25 feet high, and the walls
lean outward, like an inverted cone. On top, there is a man-sized hole
leading down inside, opening up into a pit. Puma, anaconda and human
bones were found in the pit upon initial excavation.

A few hours into the visit, we were joined by three local children who
came to gawk at the gringos. We gave them some peanut butter and jelly
sandwiches and some candy bars. One of them, a 13 year old boy named
Edwin, brought along hand woven bags that read Peru - Kuelap with a
block-pattern representation of the Tintero. He wanted either 5 soles or
two dollars for them. Edwin was a font of knowledge about Kuelap,
although only those of us who spoke Spanish could understand him. He and
I and Spencer, the tour leader's son, walked around and talked about the
ruins and what he thought particular buildings were used for. He was a
very good guide, in spite of his age. He told us legends about
surrounding mountains, handed down to him by his grandmother.We told him
to learn English so he could make some real money.

The party had a short tour by Lerche, after which we split off to
explore the ruins on our own. I walked outside with Edwin and climbed up
the treacherous stones of the northern wall, which looked out over the
steep ridge. This led me up to the Torreon. I was shaking and had to hug
the ground once I got up there. After a few pictures, I was glad to
scuffle down again. 

Outside the main wall, I joined up again with Spencer and Bruce, an
accountant from Jacksonville in his mid-fifties. Most of the party had
left already. Bruce was having trouble walking, so Edwin ran to the
nearest clump of hedges and skillfully hacked out a walking stick for
him. Edwin asked us if we wanted to see his horse. He went behind the
same hedge and emerged on a beatiful Peruvian Paso horse, said his
goodbyes and took off down the mountain.

We drove back to Choctamal in the bus, stopping so Inge could photograph
her rare plants. After the lodge getting back to the lodge and soaking
in the hot tub, we bought some cervezas from a local tienda and went to
bed early.

Day 4 Abra Yumal Pass / Descent 

Those wanting to hike took off early. The riders took off later, and the
pack horses left much later. While getting in formation, my horse
brushed the tail of a mule ridden by Spencer. The mule promptly kicked
me and the horse. 

Riding up over the first mountain was a challenge. The path was steep
and full of ruts. I had never been on a horse before for an extended
length of time. One learns to sway and lean with the horse very quickly.
We passed a few local families on the trails carrying supplies. Our
horses almost always became uneasy when passed by other horses and mules
going in the opposite direction.

We rode up further and into the Abra Yumal pass. In the distance we
could see many other mountains, and on top of one, a peculiar square
rock. Lerche said it was a sacred rock and would have been about two
days' journey from where we were at. He also remarked that on just about
every mountain there were ruins of Chachapoyan structures.

The pass was relatively easy and flat, in spite of the dizzying views
downward. After lunch we dismounted under instructions from the guides;
the trail would be too difficult  for the horses. We began descending
into cloud forest jungle. We saw more birds, plantlife and variation in
the terrrain. After we passed a few waterfalls and streams, the trail
became muddy. Very muddy.

My walking stick helped somewhat in skipping over the mud, but there was
nothing to prevent the occasional slip. Before long my new Dexter boots
were covered in mud, but their waterproof guarantee seemed to be holding
good. 

Three or four of us hikers in front got to a fork in the trail ahead of
most of the others. We made a gigantic arrow with some branches and
descended further into the Vilaya valley. The trail became very steep,
and the holes more profound. I walked a good part of the trail alone as
the others got ahead of me. I can't begin to describe the utter
difficulty of hopping from rut to rut to avoid slipping into mud holes.
My boots were still holding up, but my blue jeans and the top of my
socks however, did not. A photograph of me from that afternoon makes it
look like I'm wearing knee-high brown boots, but it's actually mud.

One part of the trail passed a gorge with a sharp drop over fifty feet
down. The trail narrowed to about a foot wide in the middle of the
gorge; one could see where the trail had been eroded away recently. I
hugged the ground and did not look down. While I was still kneeling I
managed to get a picture of the drop. I wondered how the pack horses
with our luggage would be able to cross it.

I finally reached the clearing where Lerche and two others had halted.
It was beatiful...the clearing was surrounding by tree-covered
mountains. One could tell the clearing had been used often as a campsite
from the remnants of past campfires and cow and horse droppings. There
were a lot of mosquitoes, but amazingly they didn't bite.

The others trickled in as I removed my pants and beat them on rocks and
trees, splattering mud on my shirt as a consequence. We made a fire, but
the pack horses were will far behind, so there was no dinner. Paul
beaver happened to have some chicken wings. I offered him a single
packet of McDonald's mild picante salsa I had brought along. His eyes
lit up; I don't think he noticed it was from McDonald's. It seemed to be
sufficient for the two dozen wings we cooked in the large tin can of
fruit cup we used as a pot.

The helpers and pack horses arrive hours after sundown. Our luggage was
muddy; the bags probably fell off the horses from time to time on those
impossible trails. The cooks  broke out some frozen chickens (they also
carried live chickens with them) and cooked them. We had some coca tea
by the campfire and, finally, a real dinner. The porters promised to let
me try some coca leaves the next day.



Day 5 Mt Cacahuasha 

In the briefing we were given the choice to walk or ride. Paul Beaver
said that the trail was relatively flat. The riders, however, would have
to deal with thorny branches, which, according to Paul, would rip your
eyes out if you weren't careful. I approached Hugo, one of the porters,
about trying some coca leaves. He seemed genuinely enthused that a
gringo wanted to try some. He got some from Fernando, the captain of the
horse team, an older fellow who wore a conductor's cap, put it in a
plastic bag, and gave it to me. He explained that I needed to add cal, a
white powder ground from limestone to release the active ingredient in
the leaves, and that I shouldn't swallow the leaves but merely suck the
juice.

We descended a clay trial, which was muddy but not as difficult. At a
ridge I encountered some of the faster hikers who had stopped for a
break. Steve, from California, was badgering an old woman for
photographs. She was returning to her house from her chacra, complete
with donkey. She obliged Steve's photos, and he gave her a candy bar,
which she accepted graciously. I felt somewhat embarrassed when he
walked into her gate, snapping about a dozen photos. I struck up a
conversation with her afterwards. She grew sugar cane in her chacra. I
asked her if she knew where I could get some cal. She produced a small
symmetric gourd and opened it. She poured out a handful of the white
powder and offered it to me. I really didn't have anywhere to put it, so
I mixed it all in with the bag of coca leaves. I thanked her
tremendously.

The taste of the cal was incredibly bitter. I immediately felt the
narcotic effect of the leaves, one side of my mouth becoming numb. We
made our way down to the meeting point at the river to rest and have a
snack. The occasional campesinos would pass by, nonchalantly trudging
through the mud and across the river. 

It was easy to notice we were a few thousand feet lower than Kuelap and
the Abra Yumal Pass. As the day went on, it got hotter. On the trail
just ahead of me, Bruce, a big and tall gentleman from Canada in his
late fifties, stepped in a rut and fell down into it. I helped him up,
and he seemed to be alright, in spite of his huffing and puffing.  

The trail ran through some farmland. Steve and his brother Howard
claimed to have seen a green snake slithering across the trail in front
of them. For some reason, Paul Beaver chose a spot in the hot sun to
have lunch. A few of us complained, but it was at the start of the trail
up to the Gran Vilaya ruins. I rolled up my sleeves and ate canned
chicken on rolls. I went with Jorge (an employee at the jungle lodge of
Amazonia Expeditions and a native of Iquitos) to the river to help pump
water through the purifier and wash my feet in the cold river, which
were beginning to hurt.

When we got back with the water, Paul Beaver and the others already had
started up the mountain. Bruce decided to remain at the bottom of the
mountain and wait for the horses to come by. Jorge carried all the
water. I felt my backpack would only be a burden, so I decided to leave
it just off the trail about fifty feet up. I packed a small shoulder bag
with a poncho, a first aid kit, my camera, the coca leaves and some
snacks. As we made our way up the thickly vegetated trail, I threw in a
mouthful of  leaves and cal. The path was very narrow at points, and it
was reassuring to grab a branch or vine when traversing those narrow
places. Catching up to the group ahead of us didn't take long. We found
a woodsman's shed about halfway up, occupied by a pile of wooden planks
and some trash. From there, our path became almost vertical. There, you
needed to grab on trees, branches and vines to pull yourself up. It was
very arduous.

The forest became thicker and darker the further up we went. I saw a
tree stump and thought it was a ruin. From about 30 feet above us, but
invisible through the tangle, Peter Lerche called down "almost zere!" At
the end of our vertical climb an immense, crumbling wall appeared in
front of us. From there, you could see down the mountain and the trail
from whence we came.

We came upon heavily overgrown ruins throughout the complex. They
consisted of numerous round buildings and walls. The group climbed up on
the top of the largest building and sat in a circle while Peter Lerche
gave a short talk on the Gran Vilaya ruins and their discovery. Gene
Savoy, the maverick explorer brought the ruins to the attention of the
outside world in 1985 after following tips from locals and confirming
their existence. Savoy resented by many serious archaeologists,
including Lerche; they say he is not an academic archaeologist, and that
he does not actually discover ruins, but merely popularizes them. This
is true, and Savoy freely admits both. Although I feel Savoy goes out on
a limb with his interpretations, I tend to think jealousy plays a part
in their resentment of him.

Trees sprouted from the top of the very building we sat on. It was
covered in at least a few feet of dirt; after clearing away the weeds, I
plunged my bayonet in and found no solid bottom. Jose Miguel and I
jumped from building to building, and I had him take my photograph in a
number of them. In one, we found a hearth stone and the remnants of a
pit, which a wall had collapsed into. On top of one of the large
buildings near our informal seminar, I spotted a small, reddish stone
tablet on the ground with what looked like Phoenician characters;
vaguely similar to the Roman alphabet, but with backwards Es & Rs, et
cetera. The tablet looked out of place and that it had been placed there
recently.

A few years ago, Gene Savoy found large stone tablets in the Gran Vilaya
area with what he claimed were Egyptian, Hebrew and Phoenician
inscriptions. He said that the glyphs were similar to those used by
Middle Eastern merchants at the time of King Solomon, and that one of
the symbols was identical to that which appeared on the ships Solomon
sent to the legendary land of Ophir. A number of archaeologists have
dismissed the similarities as coincidental, but Savoy and his adherents
insist upon a direct link from the Andes to the Middle East. 

The way down was faster but still difficult. Being sore from all the
previous hiking and climbing didn't help. I found my bag at the bottom;
it had been moved. I snatched it up and set out with the others. There
was a fork in the road with no marker. The trail leading upward showed a
gate to a farm, and the other trail proceeded along the river. We took
the latter, and two hours later determined it to be the wrong one - the
trail leading upward went past the farm.

We trudged along happily on high, narrow trails above beautiful banana
and sugar cane plantations. At a river, we found Hans relaxing with his
hands behind his head. He suspected he was on the wrong trail, and was
waiting for the rest of us. I volunteered to go ahead on the trail for
20 minutes to see if I could find tracks or signs left by Lerche, which
I did not. By the time I got back, Beaver had caught up with us and
admitted he didn't know whether we were on the right trail or not. We
decided to go back to the fork.

On one of the high, narrow trails near the farms, Joel, a chubby
veterinarian in his 30s, tripped over a stone and rolled down the steep
hill with a big backpack and camera tripod on his back. All of us stood
there watching, unable to stop him. He rolled straight down for about
fifty feet until a tree stopped him. About five of us ran down and
around to get him, but amazingly he got up and walked away unscathed.
Afterwards he said he was employing the same mental technique he used
during firewalking to protect himself from harm. Joel was always into
the esoteric aspects of things; he always referred to energies flowing
from various objects and twirled his divining rods constantly. He was
also known for his general good nature, his large supply of candy bars
and homeopathic medicines, and his beautiful girlfriend who accompanied
us.

It was getting dark, and we were still lost. Ted, a businessman from Ann
Arbor, Michigan, began to critcize Beaver's judgement. Ted seemed to fit
the stereotype of the strict father figure who always knew what was right,
even if he didn't. He always barked out orders to his wife, an attractive
older woman who was well-intentioned but relied on her husband for
decision-making. I really liked them both, but their exchanges were
particularly amusing. I distinctly remember Ted ridiculing his wife for
wanting to carry a walking stick the day before. "You're not going to use
a walking stick. That's the dumbest idea I've ever heard.  I'll show you
what I'd do with a walking stick." As we were crossing a bridge on a river
consisting of a single log, I suggested that we use sticks to help us
balance. After crossing with the stick, he exclaimed to his wife "The
stick is the answer. Make sure you use the stick, honey!! The stick is the
right thing to use." 

On the dark trail, we feared stepping into horse patties; our steps and
hops were pure guesswork. After a while we ran into scouts that were
sent from the camp to meet us. When we finally arrived, they served up
the best plate of hot spaghetti and meat sauce I've ever had. Paul
Beaver was exhausted and ready to pass out. Both the trail and Ted's
barking had almost done him in. Dirty and crusty from the long march, we
fell into bed; the tents were already set up.

The incredible tale of discoveries in the northern region of Chachapoyas continues:
Part II

E-Mail me with your discoveries:

afn62971@afn.org

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