Where was I… oh, Piura. Yes, it has gotten to that sad and cliché point of forgetting where we’ve been and not quite knowing what to expect when I open my eyes in the morning. We didn’t spend long in Piura, searching instead for something picturesque (sorry; I know Piura is historically significant, but we’re shallow). So we made for Trujillo, another big city but somehow more pleasant.
We spent a day being tourists in the classic sense, as we decided to splash out on a tour of surrounding archaeological sites. Moche temples of the sun and moon, pyramid-like edifices filled with surprisingly well-preserved interior decor.
The vast Chimu mud city of Chan Chan, largest mud city in the world, and quite a cool thing to see, we thought. Until inevitably reminded that mud doesn’t keep well, and we found ourselves in the middle of a vast plain undulating with little mud mounds.
There were impressive parts, though as with many of these sights, the interesting thing is imagining its past, which was a little challenging as we struggled hard to understand our guide’s stream of mumbled Spanish. (I did, however, understand when he told me how Peruvian I look, and proceeded to have a long debate with one member of the group about where in Peru I could be from. General consensus, I think, was Lima. Thanks guys.)
Then we took a day trip to the nearby fishing village of Huanchaco, home to unique reed fishing boats and committed gringo surfers.
We took a long walk along the beach, admired the boats, and imagined how much nicer it would all be in the summer, with actual warmth and sunshine. It was shockingly cold, and all my dreams of a blissful beach break were cruelly shattered. Think we may have planned poorly for this trip when we packed ten t-shirts and one sweater.
Rich’s cold turned into something worse (to be fair, it might have been the ceviche in Huanchaco), so we put all plans on hold for a while, and stayed in Trujillo until he could walk around again. It was bound to happen at some point, and I was naive to imagine we were somehow above the ailments of those gap-year backpackers out of home and in exotic climes for the first time.
I just hope that was it for our misfortunes, because as misfortunes go, it could have been a lot worse – we were indulging in a nicer hotel than usual (surely the first one with any form of room service, even though it did take an hour and a half for a chicken sandwich), and Trujillo was big enough to stay interesting.
So we pottered about, exhausting the three occasionally-English-language channels on the little TV in our room, watching the preparations and observing the remains of the city’s Independence Day celebrations, but never quite joining in. Then when Rich was up to it, and we’d managed to get hold of two bus tickets despite the Independence Day flurry, we made for the hills.
And impressive hills they are too; the Cordillera Blanca, with 50 of the tallest peaks in the world, and Huaraz perched in the midst of it. Predictably crowded with unshaven wool-clad mountain climbers, looking a little out of place on flat streets, but making me feel even more out of place with my search for a gentle day hike and my comments about the pretty snowy mountains. Ah well.
Mostly we’re still recovering; the nine-and-a-half-hour overnight bus ride was unexpectedly traumatic, and we spent our first day in Huaraz shuffling about, making Lurch noises, and lamenting the minging hostel room we’d been stuck with thanks to sheer desperation at 6am.
All in all, not too joyful a way of celebrating our one-month travelliversary.
But I think we’re both feeling better today, after a ridiculous amount of sleep last night, gradually getting used to the altitude, and having asked someone at the hostel to clean the minging room (hopefully later the water will be working too, and we’ll be able to shower again). So sooner or later we will probably start being active again, and will have more upbeat tales of treks and travels to tell.
