Panao to Pozuzo

All Peruvians are liars about time and distance, or they don't know where the fuck they are. I was five hours into a “three hour walk” that turned out to be seven hours just to get to my first “road” in four days and still be a two hour car ride from finishing my “three hour walk.” I don't know what I was thinking. I had no food because I would be in Pozuzo in “three hours.” Yet, three days earlier someone told be that Pampa Wasi was a vueltita (around a little corner) . . . that was six hours. And two days before San Juan was adelante . . . into the jungle on a dead end trail only to return up the same steep muddy trail hauling my 100 pound bike. . . another six hours. The last day is always the hardest but I thought that was yesterday. Adventure – typically not much fun at the time.

going to lose some toe nails to this one

I gazed at a dotted line on my Peru maps for a decade dropping straight from the Andean highlands of Panao to the town of Pozuzo in the selva (jungle). Pozuzo has the added attraction of being a Austro- German colony established in the 1860's where residents are reputed to still speak German and preserve many of their old world traditions. I find the combination of a remote trail through the mountains with a unique destination hard to resist. My mind was made up from the beginning – all I had to do was convince myself into the sanity of the endeavor and maybe some other soul. In the end I was solo but good to keep it simple.After an extended two part stay in the lovely city of Huanuco, food poisoning then frame repair, I was itching to move. I was going to ditch part of my load onto a bus to retrieve down the line but it seemed like time and bother so I opted for my full load . . . thought about that decision again. The weld looked good and I was going to have to trust it. I rode the first hour and half out of Huanuco in case some fatal flaw would be revealed . . . nothing. I jumped in the back of a truck at El Rancho with campesinos headed for the highlands where I snapped my frame. I helped a woman with her bags and hoisted children. She reassured the others that “no es malo” but they still would not talk or look at me. After 30-40 minutes they could not resist and a designated spokesman began questioning me and repeating my answers verbatim to the others. Strange to be feared and echoed. I arrived as the sole passenger to pre-election pandemonium in Panao – I believe it was the last day to purchase alcohol prior to the election (Peru observes, well sanctions, a dry period before/after elections). I stopped for some meat on a stick and was mobbed by the curious, received a couple marriage offers, and got a hotel recommendation. Within an hour the whole town knew I was the gringo on a bike riding to Pozuzo . . . has some advantages. Many know the route, few have done the route, and it is “impossible” on a bike. I have a specific route in mind that is direct from Panao to Pozuzo yet most advice is sending me farther around over a high pass involving at least three hours of Incan staircase. Later in the evening I meet a “guide” in a small store that gives me the route information I want reassuring me that my original route is shorter. I now have a list of towns Yuramarca, Pampa Wasi, Piura, San Juau, Buena Vista, and Pozuzo. Simple enough – just ask along the way and follow the obvious path.
I go to my hotel room early, watch the street clean up as town shuts down, and finish Anna Karenina - one more thing I don't need but hard to begrudge Tolstoy. I eventually leave Panao out of breath from endless questions beginning my climb to Yuramarca . . . of the distance I am unsure. Some say a half days walk others a day . . . The climb is a fierce 25 km and Yuramarca should be right over the top . . . this is the first of many climbs and descents across the high treeless sierra. The scenery is stunning and I am surprised by the density of settlement in the hills around Panao. Some say it close other say it is far . . . I try to find someone to ask not on foot or burro. Some truck drivers and they give me a better idea – I will be pedaling all day. In the end Yuramarca is about 70 km of new dirt road over endless ridges and through valleys. Electric service ends at about km 30 and I meet a woman on the road. She is suspicious of my presence - “why are you here?” She does not believe I am a tourist yet I have a hard time understanding her because she speaks mostly an agitated Quechua. I catch something about pishtackos and the finger sliding across the open throat . . . Does she think I am an organ snatcher? Here to drain fat to power airplanes? Maybe if I was driving a windowless van with a bag full of candy . . . but I am on a bike with bags full of ramen noodles. . . The next woman on the road moves away from me as fast as possible – others simply stare. I am a little freaked out. Scared people are unpredictable. Later someone explains that a pishtako kills other people and slits them open for their organs . . . to eat. The cannibal syndrome – fear of the other – I risk catching it.I have been traveling across high sierra for more than six hours and I am beginning to wonder when I will drop to the selva. Pozuzo is at 800 meters yet I am still traveling along at 4000 meters. The climate is becoming humid as clouds roll up the from the Amazon basin – vegetation is a mix of dry scrub, cacti, bromiliads, and the occasional rhododendron. The soil is rich and dark. Descending off another ridge into a small farming community I stop at the first tienda in a long while hoping to buy some bottled water to replace the muddy water in my bottles. They could not be more friendly and curious – a pleasant change, and love my blue eyes. I have always done well with my blue eyes but this was over the top. As rain poured down and I stood underneath a small eave, people appeared out of no where to shake my hand and stare into my eyes. Upon insistence I spent a little time huddled over a fire in a room of wood and tarps then departed. With only one hour of light remaining I was welcome to stay the night but time is distance and I was beginning to wonder just how long this ride might be. And I was ready to sit alone and not talk after a long tiring day versus an evening of questioning in a mix of Quechua and Spanish. I passed a comfortable night underneath a bridge at the bottom of the valley with fresh water – while not hidden, not obvious, and no homes were is the immediate vicinity. I do not worry about theft so much when I am in the Peruvian countryside because people go to bed at dark and are honest . . . except with time and direction, of course.
I arrive in Yuramarca mid-morning, the end of the road, the towns folk are quiet and stare. The men gathered in front of the blue tarp tent serving as a store say nothing as I park my bike, like a Sergio Leone western before the shoot out. The pickings are slim and I buy several packs of cookies. When I walk out a crowd of 15-20 are gathered around my bike and the barrage of questions begins. And they all know I was the cyclist sleeping under the bridge. I get the ubiquitous “how much does it cost?,” I lie saying, "500" and leave it up to them if it is soles or dollars – no matter an outrageous amount . . . what if I told them it was really worth about $3000? . . . Inevitably, someone offers to buy it, yeah right. I received confirmation of my route and have the trail to Pampa Wasi pointed out. Looks well set if a little rough in spots but wide as I expected. Here we go immediately carrying my bikes over a set of boulders up a ravine.Directions were typical Peruvian – it is straight ahead with a vague wave encompassing half the horizon. Why people cannot point is beyond me? I understand it is over the ridge. I consecutively ask three woman where is Pampa Wasi and I am directed straight up to the ridge and told that the well trod trail I am on goes elsewhere. I have a good sense of direction, especially in the mountains, and I should have followed it. What the hell so they know they only live here. Turns out both go to Pampa Wasi one is direct the other is reasonable. I go direct. Immediately, pushing and carrying my bike up a steep slope on burro trails. Then it gets steeper, then rockier and I run into a small homestead of a family, that has been living in area for nine years, he confirms that I am on the route to Pampa Wasi but it would have been easier to go the other way . . . I continue under darkening clouds thunder rolls and hail begins, icy marbles piling on me and the trail. I duck under a bush and pull ichu grass around myself to stay warm. I was getting wet/cold and decide to dash for my rain gear and plow forward as hail relents to sleet then steady rain. No photos of this section – best to forget. I take my bike and bags up in sections through slick boulder filled gullies until I seem to be topping out onto puna. The rain relents and I stop for the last of my bread and some peanut butter (precious cargo bought in Huaras). I am beginning to think Pozuzo could be a ways off . . . I am hoping Pampa Wasi is just over the top but I pass over the gap to gaze across a broad valley to a distant ridge . . . over that ridge I gaze across another valley to a ridge. At least, I can ride. After, several ridges and valleys, I notice burro drivers unpacking and take a short 10 minute stroll over to confirm my directions. I am on track and begin up the gentle ridge until dusk when I set up camp between some swales to break the wind on the wide open puna.I settle in and take stock of my food . . . I am seriously hungry. Do I eat two packs of ramen or three? Leaving me with two or one for the next day plus a can of trout . . . I am beginning to have some doubts about this little endeavor. But I eat three packs of ramen after having my ass kicked all day and set decisions aside for the mythical Pampa Wasi. I know I am not descending what I just climbed. I am sure the sunset was beautiful. I did not get out of my tent but the colors are pretty from where I sat.I wake to a foggy morning and reach Pampa Wasi within an hour meeting an old woman on the trail. I am encouraged by the apparent ride-ability of the path. We have an amiable chat and she assures me that Piura is closer than Yuramarca as well as being lower. The moment of decision . . . I am going. No turning back now. In the words of Afro Samurai, "my only aim is to move forward." I reach Piura in a dense fog by mid morning and hail a young woman herding sheep to receive route confirmation and the scattered stone huts are Piura. The trail is becoming less defined splitting in myriad animal paths as I descend across open puna but this is typical of herding paths and occasional laid stones confirm my route, as well as, periodic scouting. When I reach a drainage I am pretty sure I have to climb up on an equally vague set of trails towards a low point on the ridge . . . at least that is where I would put the trail. I take a quick 40 minute jaunt to a small homestead to speak with a terrified young woman clutching her child. She refuses to look at me but after gentle coaxing learn that her papa goes to Buena Vista over the pass . . . though, I wonder if she is saying the most expedient thing to get me to leave.I top out on the pass by noon and the trail reappears as it descends through cliffs bands passing herds of sheep. I notice a Jackob ram, distinguished by four horns, a rare breed in the United States. I would try for a better photo but feel a little tapped to be chasing sheep. However, I am elated to be on the east side of the mountains but the fog has thickened. I run into a burro driver we greet shaking hands, talk, share some coca, and he tells me San Juan is close but Buena Vista is a days walk from where we stand. I feel immense relief to know that I am within a day of a road and start descending with confidence on a well maintained trail that drops in tight switch backs. Before long jungle is closing in and i am reveling in the new environment . . . then after two hours descending the trail suddenly ends in a barricade. In a scene worthy of Herzog I push and carry up muddy the trail looking for the turn I missed until I arrive back where I was six hours earlier. Under normal circumstances I could ask someone for directions, however, it is election day and nobody is in the highlands but in the towns voting. Exhausted, out of water (I had been licking a lot of leaves for moisture), and with little food. I wander about looking for some water until I find a puddle in some old stone steps beside the trail - four water bottles worth! Tasted a little minerally but you need your minerals. I could cook my pack of ramen instead of simply spreading peanut butter on it! I slept like the dead and woke to to the echo of howler monkeys from the jungle below and a gorgeous sunrise with clear views of my location. Beautiful but an intimidating green dense vertical yet I feel euphoric to be here in this moment.I finish the last of my coffee and nothing scares me more than caffeine deprivation. I have to find a pueblo by the end of the day. I retrace my steps back to the pass then descend again until I find a vague split in the trail that leads to trail older than the one I was on.

the intersection. . .

Metal roofs glint in the distant valley below and I decide . . . the trail is headed in the right direction. On the descent I realize there is no turning back it is too steep and I do not have the energy to re climb. I reach the river valley below stopping at the first home. They only speak Quechua but I glean enough to know this is not where I wanted to be, this is not San Juan but Palma . . . where ever the hell that is. I start down valley on a narrow foot path and chat with an old man in his fields, again mostly Quechua, he is visibly pleased with what I have done and knows the route because he used to herd cattle over the pass to Pozuzo. I get the name of a town at the bottom of the valley, Mashahuanca, and it has motorcycles! I head down valley riding and pushing my way along. When I come to a visible trail juncture with a bridge crossing the river I lean my bike up on the trail and take the 45 minute detour. Actually, a school and small settlement, initially people seem to be hiding then I find a household with an old woman and two young men. Communication is difficult, Quechua, but we manage to laugh and they confirm my route to Mashahuanca (they have motorcycles!). Best of all they feed me! In good granny style the old women tells me eat, eat! I am a little self conscious because I am very hungry and could bite a head off the guinea pigs that scamper around my feet while I sit alone eating in her hut. The potatoes, pasta and rice are going to power me for the rest of the day. I thank them profusely and set off down the valley determined to reach Mashahuanca, and coffee, by dark. The narrow ribbon of trail stretches before me climbing over ridges and dropping into the steep drainages of water cascading down from the highlands. I am forced to ferry my bike and bags separately up the steep paths until finally I see the river valley below. People are returning up valley and I must stop to shake hands and exchange pleasantries with everyone – people in the highlands are very polite. But my light is fading as I ride the narrow rocky path acutely aware of the thousand foot tumble a twitch to my left. After a final ass kicking descent through rocky switchbacks I arrive in Mashahuanca as night falls. My entire body aches from blistered feet to swollen knee to biceps to decades old shoulder and elbow tendonitis. No motorcycles but there is a tienda and I stay under the shed roof of the Ordenas, carpenter and store owners. I chow down on pasta and canned fish while a hospitable and curious crowd looks on fascinated by my stove. People are excited to have a gringo in town because I am told that no one visits here – ever. I receive a pineapple and yucca to supplement my meal. I am utterly exhausted but thrilled to eat and have two 550 Sodium Naproxen for dessert with a little diazapan on top. However, no coffee . . . The next morning I wash out my coffee bag with cold water hoping to stave off withdrawal but I am told that it is only a three hour walk to Pozuzo . . . I get help pushing my bike up the steep slope to the main trail by a crowd gathered at the bridge. Ostensibly, there to get boards for bridge repair but, also, to see the gringo off, charming really. I figure I should be in Buena Vista, where I can buy coffee and food within two hours. Well, eight hours later, with no food but lots of coca, I pull into Buena Vista close to dark. As for the motorcycles, well there is no chance a motorcycle is going to pass over the broken bridges, washed out ravines, and landslides. Buena Vista is much smaller than I expected with garbage scattered about that seems to appear with roads. I speak with some locals to get an idea of the distance to Pozuzo. I am told 1.5-2 hours by car, of course, this is by a young man on a burro and when was the last time he was in a car? And two woman just want to ask me endless questions about what am I doing here? Recently some gringos died in a car wreck in Oxapampa, therefore I must be going there . . . why and by bike? They think Germany is part of the USA and all gringos know each other. Finally, she asks me, “you don't speak Castellano, do you?” I reply, “I don't speak Quechua,” and what the hell were we just speaking for the past 15 minutes? I am tired, irritable, light is fading and I am getting short on patience with questions and the accusatory tone. Time to hit the road downhill for the next 15km. The road is rough with loose double fist sized rocks. I am thinking just go for it in the dark and the latest I will get there is 9pm – making for a nice 15 hour stretch without food but I have full water bottles. However, once I hit bottom there is a roadside collection wooden shacks that is the pueblito of Mal Paso. A crowd quickly gathers as I buy pasta, an onion and plantain planning to camp by the river. But out of the dusk a beat Toyota pickup appears and I jump in for the next 20-25km to Pozuzo. The young girl in the front seat is shy but I offer to share my first meal of the day, cookies. Little girls can't resist my cookies. The driver and I chat for a bit and he tries to sell me on land in the region and starting a cattle operation. Bumping along the rough dirt road through the steep jungle valley crossing the occasional unbridged river we pass into silence and arrive in Pozuzo an hour after dark. The adventure is over – let the recovery begin.