Chan Chan

Thursday 24th March 1988

I went to “El Poseidon” for breakfast as usual, but they had no eggs or milk. I had a cup of tea and a couple of cheese rolls and then went to call for Nick and Georgina. We had breakfast in their hotel bar and then set off for the Chan Chan ruins.

The ruins of Chan Chan, which cover nearly 14 square miles (36 square km), are in fairly good condition because the area is usually rainless. The building material used was adobe brick, and the buildings were finished with mud frequently adorned with patterned relief arabesques.

Chan Chan, the capital of the Chimu kingdom, is composed of ten walled citadels, the streets and narrow passageways of which give way to broad plazas, terraces and truncated pyramids, evidence of the high degree of urban planning engaged in by the Chimu.

An English bloke called Guy, who had just arrived, told us that there a bus strike on. Apparently, the Government had been keeping the bus fares so low that the bus crews could no longer afford to do proper maintenance, a decent living, or new vehicles in the privately, individually-owned fleet.

The road had been obstructed with rocks, broken glass and fires to further disrupt transport. Taxis were discreetly plying their trade, having removed all of their taxi plates and signs. We got a lift immediately from a Spanish ex-patriot to the entrance to Chan Chan and while walking along the dusty track to the entrance we were picked up by a tourist tour bus.

At the entry kiosk we paid our 50 Intis and picked up Oscar, our guide for 200 Intis. The ruins cover a wide area but one unit in reasonable repair was selected for excavation and renovation. This unit was one of nine which included a main square cum meeting place, religious buildings, storage areas, housing and a reservoir for water. The adobe bricks were visible in many places, made of mud and strengthened with cactus juice in this case.

There were some interesting fish and bird carvings and some solid lattice work. The sun blazed down and my face and neck soon went red. After the tour we were introduced to some more Tourist Police who took us to a “gallery” in a private house where you could buy prints of Pre-Columbian art. From 13,000 BC to 1500 AD art in America existed long before the arrival of Columbus and was as, or more in some cases, sophisticated as the art of the known world.

We flagged down a clandestine taxi which took us back to Huanchaco. On the way we had a small argument at a checkpoint manned by two old boys and a couple of kids. Our driver refused to pay the ten Intis that they wanted and skirted the barrier.

We then had a good, peppery hot fish meal in the Pisagua Restaurante. Georgina abstained as she was suffering from the dreaded “Inca 2-Step” (diarrhoea). At 15:00 hrs. Nick and Georgina departed for the airport and their flight to Lima.

I went back to my room to escape from the merciless sun and catch up with writing my diary while listening to the radio. At 16:30 hrs. I decided to go and visit the solid red church that stood on the cliff overlooking the town and the graveyard that Nick and Georgie had primed me about.

I followed a road which wound it’s way through the impoverished outskirts of the town. Resting builders and inhabitants of the crude brick buildings waved and called greetings. On reaching the church I first scaled the dark, narrow spiral staircase which went up to the bell tower.

There were views over the Israeli-looking town and the largely desolate desert wastes beyond. The three rusty bells looked long disused. The church was in a poor state and undergoing major renovations.

I then went into the bleak, wind-blown walled cemetery. There was a disorderly scattering of wooden crosses and new, relatively expensive looking tombs. On one side there were catacombs or a clay edifice with row upon row of arched openings. These had obviously been breached and looted.

A headless mummified corpse hung half out of one and another had a skull and a scalp of human hair on a pile of splintered old dry wood and rubble. The wind blew dried paper flowers and bits of tomb decoration around in the sandy graveyard.

It was a sad, devastated, desolate place. I was morbidly fascinated but pleased to leave this place. I stood up a broken wooden cross, restoring it back on it’s cairn of rocks on the way out. Only the very newest graves showed any signs of care or maintenance.

I walked back down to the beach and watched the surfers against the orange backdrop of the setting sun. I ate cerviche in El Peñón Restaurante and changed some more money in the Hotel Bracamonte before retiring to my room with a packet of cheese snacks.

I applied some cream to my sunburned and battered face and relaxed reading “A Song in the Morning” by Gerald Seymour.

“A Song in the Morning” was first published on 1st January 1987 and relates the following tale. Jack is a young Englishman who travels to South Africa to find out why the father he hardly knew is on death row. It turns out he was a British agent who was imprisoned in Albania for twenty years. He was then assigned to observe the activities of the ANC in South Africa and instead got involved with a bombing.

A string of Madonna songs were featured on the radio. Yesterday it had been George Micheal in the spotlight. I soon lapsed into much needed sleep.