Wednesday 30th March 1988
I met Graham at breakfast, and he told me that we could get on a one-hour white-water rafting trip with a group of Australians and English for 700 Intis. We opted in and a heavy-duty red estate vehicle picked us up from the hotel, but most of the group had gone out for breakfast and we had to wait.
This gave me the opportunity to visit Piers and James at their hotel. They were still in bed and looking the worst for wear after a night on the tiles. I gave them the money to get me a bus ticket to Lima and arranged to meet them later.
While I was waiting to go on this raft trip a German girl asked me if I wanted to go on a 5-day trek with her. Sadly, I never saw her again.
We then joined the party of three Australian blokes and two English girls for the Montrek Boat Trip. We were driven a short way out of town where we climbed down to the riverbank by a bridge. The tour operators inflated the boat, and we got our brief on safety and what to do when we were on the river.
They ran through the orders that they would give us, the paddlers, and told us what to do if you fell overboard. The river looked very violent and turbulent and after our talk on fending off rocks with our feet when hurtling along in the current after falling overboard, and the possibility of the boat capsizing, we were all apprehensively wondering what we had let ourselves in for.
We donned our life jackets and, after a brief paddling practice in the shallows, we set off into the torrent. We bounced through the first set of rapids with the boat rotating and water splashing everywhere. It was relatively easy to stay in the raft and after a couple more turbulent passages we were confident, working well as a team, and hoping for rougher, more challenging parts ahead.
Our boatman yelled simple orders: “Forward”, “Backwards”, “Stop”, and “Left” and “Right”, in which case the paddlers on that side rowed backwards whilst the other side continued forwards in order to turn left or right.
A lot of the art was to get in the right place on the river before the tumultuous current and the standing waves whisked you through the narrower, shallower parts of the stream. There were a lot of rocks and boulders which pummelled the single thin skin of rubber which formed the bottom of our vessel.
The scenery was spectacular with high green hills and flowery meadows leading up to the snowy heights of the big mountains. Locals tended livestock and a group of kids fishing held up a large trout for our approval as we hurtled past.
We stopped to bale out water once and we ran aground once, but the trip was safe and enjoyable. The random rotation of the oval inflatable boat made it easy for us to take in the panoramic Alpine-like scenery.
After an hour we came to the Huaráz Airstrip where our brief, exciting trip terminated. I believe we had been on the Rio Santo. We clambered up a shore populated by tiny frogs, soaked to the skin and chatting excitedly. It was hot and sunny, so we began to dry out quickly as we sat on the upturned boat drinking Pepsi Cola.
Back in the vehicle we asked the Montrek team to drop us off at the Chancos Hot Springs and Sauna. This they willingly did, despite it being a bit out of their way. At Chancos we found a scruffy, primitive village in a narrow river valley, three kilometres along a dirt road from the main road.
We had to pay 8 Intis for the van to be allowed up the “private” rocky track. One of the tour organisers asked the woman at the Control Point when they would use the money to improve the road. The Indian woman just smiled, and we all laughed.
There was a substantial queue for the bathing pools and natural saunas, which were in fenced-off caves, so we decided to give it a miss. We sat in the sun while Graham had a dodgy meal of identifiable meat and potato served by a young girl from a plastic bucket.
We bought Pepsi from a dark dirty crude restaurant where a lot of workers in yellow hard hats were having lunch. After about forty minutes the well-worn local bus bounced up the road and turned round at the end.
We jumped aboard into the tatty interior and bagged our seats. On the way back to Huaráz a passenger list was passed around for us to fill in with details of our passports, age and occupation. The fare was 30 Intis back to town.
Back at the hotel Graham moved his bags into my room and we sat on the beds talking for a couple of hours about mortgages, finance, running vehicles, girlfriends and travel stories. At 18:30 hrs. we went out into the dark town to get something to eat.
We took the Menú and drank beer, discussing the London Council and Gas Board Workers in England. At 20:00 hrs. we were joined by Piers and James who had been stocking up on local jewellery. Graham left to catch his bus back to Lima and I went with “The Steptoes” to a couple of cafés for beer before ending up in Tambo’s Folk Disco. I can only imagine that the nickname “The Steptoes” came from their scruffy appearance and their grimy and grasping ways. Steptoe and Son is a British sitcom written by Ray Galton and Alan Simpson about a father-and-son rag-and-bone business in Oil Drum Lane, a fictional street in Shepherd's Bush, London.
They explained that they made their underwear last 4 days before washing by wearing underpants normally, then next day back to front, next day inside out, next day inside out and back to front.
Today there was no escaping the 100 I/- entry fee for Tambo’s, but this included a glass of draft Chopp beer. A folklorica group were playing typically South American local music which was appropriate and very good. The crowd danced enthusiastically.
Later on the band gave way to a disco and soon all three of us were well in with the local girls. James went out for a walk with a striking Oriental-looking girl with pink lipstick. Piers sat surrounded by a group of interested girls, frantically thumbing through his Spanish phrase book.
I ended up dancing with a girl from the Tourist Office in Lima who could speak good English but had trouble understanding my London accent. At about 02:30 hrs. she left with her friends, giving me a farewell kiss and telling me to look her up in Lima in a few days’ time, after the Easter holidays.
I sat down next to Piers and got talking to a friendly couple who invited me back to their place for a drink. Piers was still hopefully plugging away with his entourage, so I left with the couple and another bloke for a shant (alcoholic drink). This was against all traveller safety advice, going off with strangers to the dark side of town!
Enroute, we stopped for hot caliche which consisted of lemon juice, alcohol and a mystery ingredient (probably river water)! Eventually we ended up in the far corner of town amongst crude square single storey houses (blockhouses?) and muddy, pebble-strewn tracks.
They had no beer, and it was now nearly 04:00 hrs. so we began a tour of the local unmarked shops banging on the doors and asking to buy beer. After a few sleepy replies of “no hay cerveza” and a few “bugger off it’s four in the mornings” we gave up and decided to call it a night.
The lads pointed out the full moon and the Southern Cross constellation in the clear night sky. They invited me to stay in their hut, but I politely declined, and they walked me back to the centre of town. Here we had a final caliche each, served by a bored cold-looking Indian woman, before saying goodnight and arranging to meet next day for a walk to the Mirador Cross above the town.
I walked back to the Edwards Inn as the first early rising locals were getting up, bundled in warm clothing, to start their daily business.
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