Peru: On The Rocky Road (cont.)

I call everyone whose number I can remember from a payphone and spend some time pretending to read, but as the hours roll by I run out of things to do. I try eavesdropping, but the three women sitting closest to me are speaking too quickly for me to understand anything, save a few scattered words. To my right, a couple from New Zealand is sitting in silence sharing a thermos filled with mate.

As the sun sets, I begin to notice peoples’ breath as they speak. After doing everything I can possibly think of to entertain myself, I am resigned to staring at the minute hand of the clock and willing it to move faster. A man in a pearl button cowboy shirt working for a rival bus company begins screaming a nonstop barrage of Peruvian city names in a jarring, shrilly voice.

Quarter of eight rolls around when we first learn our bus will be delayed at least two hours. The two hours pass, at which point we are informed that the bus is stuck on the other side of the blockade and will be delayed indefinitely.

At this point a rumor starts circulating that a limited number of passengers will be taken to the blockade by private taxi. They will then cross the line by foot and rendezvous with the bus. I am told that priority will be given to those who bought their tickets earliest. A rumor follows that the bus has been cancelled altogether.

Midnight passes and we are still bus-less. An angry mob begins to form around the ticket counter assaulting the ticket agent with questions and litanies of reason why they need to be in Arequipa. The ticket agent’s cell phone rings and he takes the call and disappears into the back room.

A half-hour passes and the man in the pearl button shirt is still screaming city names. Everyone seems on edge, except the New Zealanders who are now enjoying some tea biscuits.

Finally a woman appears behind the counter and explains that a shuttle bus is waiting outside to drive us through the blockade, where we will meet the stranded coach. There is room for everyone.

“Do we have to walk through a crowd of protesters?” I ask a middle-aged women who appears to have a better idea of what is going on.

“If we do, they will help us carry our bags.”

I smile at the absurdity of the situation and line up to board the minibus not knowing what to expect. The air outside is crisp, and after over ten hours in the waiting area I am excited to be going anywhere.

As the bus leaves Puno, the southern highlands are eerily quiet. We are the only vehicle on the road and an overwhelming darkness envelops us, masking surroundings that could be confused for a lunar landscape. I feel momentarily at peace amongst the vague shroud of anxiety surrounding what lies ahead, and close my eyes for a few minutes.

I am awoken by a thud. We appear to be on a four lane paved highway but I start to notice small boulders strewn all over the road. We are going 60 miles an hours, and aren’t slowing down or swerving. Every couple of seconds we are jolted severely but undeterred.

As we get closer to Juliaca, the rocks get bigger. The road is still empty; while we have the luxury of weaving through all four lanes, we still haven’t reduced our speed. Eventually the road becomes unmanageable, and we intermittently head off the highway into patches of short brush and sand.

Downtown Juliaca is a ghost town. It’s 2 AM and there are no protesting masses, just rocks. Rocks are piled everywhere, 12-foot mounds of gravel obscure entire roads. There is no blockade to cross; instead every road in ten-mile radius has been rendered useless by way of stone.

We zigzag through the city, making frequent turns on to smaller roads to avoid impasses. We pass a fleet of oversized dump trucks spewing more gravel about. Dust hangs heavy in the air, and bathed in orange streetlight the scene bears a haunting resemblance to plows clearing roads during a snowstorm.

We end up in a desolate warehouse district; in the distance I see two double-decker coach buses parked in succession. The only thing standing in our way is a gently sloped seven-foot mountain of gravel. The driver shifts into a low gear, backs up and revs the engine. To my amazement we overcome the obstacle with relative ease.

Our driver greets the coach bus driver who had been leaning on the front of the bus waiting for us. There interaction is so nonchalant that it’s surreal.

The inside of our coach bus is pristine. Imperial class consists of doublewide, fully reclining, plush leather seats, television and food service. An attractive young woman in a flight attendant’s getup give us blankets and serves tea. Our descent down the Andes is cold but relatively uneventful and we arrive in Arequipa around 4:30 AM.

I take a cab from the bus station to a hotel recommended to me near the Plaza de Armas. It’s full, so I spend the next hour walking from around the city with all my possessions trying to find a place to sleep. Four fully booked hotels later, I find a bed.

I get a couple hours of sleep. Take an icy shower, and walk over to the cathedral to meet Katrin. She looks well rested. I haven’t eaten anything other than potato chips in close to 20 hours.

“So what did you end up doing yesterday?” she wonders.

“Not much actually, did you hear anything about the blockade in Juliaca?”

“Yeah, they told us we were lucky to leave before it started. I was going to call from the bus station to tell you to leave earlier, but I didn’t think that you would be in the hotel,” she pauses. “Did you have any problems?”

“Nothing serious,” I reply with a shrug, and we head off to find some fresh squeezed pineapple juice.

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