From Lima to Huancayo

I had an incredible day today. Woke up bright and early and left for Huancayo at 7:30 in the morning. Once you leave Lima, the route is remarkable. Finished in 1909 and designed by an American engineer [whose name I will surreptitiously insert here when I have better email access], the Lima-Huancayo road climbs from sea level to a literally breathtaking 4,800 meters above sea level. (Halfway up Mt. Everest for those of you keeping track!) And it isn’t a straight shot, either—the road winds through mountains and valleys the whole way there.

The surroundings and accompanying flora change dramatically with the altitude—and with industry. The outskirts of Lima is overcast desert; then you wind through some narrow green valleys—and I mean bright, Sound of Music green—with the mountains crowding in all around you. Bordering the rivers are parcels of land divided off by old stone fences; on the sides of hills—literally planted on 45 degree slopes—are potatoes and other similarly hardy crops. I would not want to be around for the harvest.

The road keeps on climbing—all the way to Tilcomayo, the highest spot on the road, clocking in at somewhere above 4,800 meters (15,000+ feet by my back of the envelope calculation). It is cold in Tilcomayo, and there are about three signs that tell you the altitude. I didn’t see much else, though I did, of course, take a picture of myself in front of the signs.

Beyond this area, you start getting into mining country. The vegetation—which fell away in the rise to Tilcomayo—returns but then thins again, not because of the altitude, but because of the acid rain and toxic emissions from local mining operations. We drove through La Oroya, which I was told was one of the ten most polluted cities in the world. I believe it. La Oroya was, 40 or 50 years ago, a major mining center. Today, the mines still produce, but the town looks like an Andean version of the London streets in Children of Men. A single smokestack—once the world’s tallest—rises above the crowded town. Let me repeat myself: the hills are literally stripped down to an ugly, unnaturally bright light grey for several kilometers around. Once you get past that, though, the valley opens up to reveal green again, and pastures.

We had lunch with one of our contacts in Jauja (guinea pig!). Then we walked through the market, where, should you so desire, you could stock up on: pork, chicken, beef, frog, snail, wheat, oats, dried potatoes, very dried potatoes, a huge mound of flour that looked liked cocaine, quinua, hats, gloves, slingshots, deodorant, fake soccer jerseys, fresh fibers for your broom, a whole lot of soup, rings, watches, earrings, and an unidentified syrupy substance you could use to treat “fungus, and bad smells.” The seller of this last item conveniently had a little panorama he put together of pictures from some medical textbook of the most bizarre, horrific, and bizarrely horrific dermatological ailments known to science circa 1970. (If you have one of these ailments, let me know, I’ll hook you up.)

The best part of the day had nothing to do with any of this, though; after lunch we were lucky enough to catch the town’s second-largest annual celebration. It is hard to describe, really, but I’ll do my best to make an analogy. Picture New Orleans, Bourbon Street on Mardis Gras. Turn Bourbon Street into a single loop. Knock down the (frankly highly tackified) French colonial buildings and erect wooden platforms on all sides with two levels: the first for beer drinking on benches, the second for beer drinking on benches, up one level. And also watching.

Watch what? Okay, so take away the floats, and the cars, and instead of dressing people as whatever people dress as for Mardi Gras, wizards, Rexes, crazy bare-chested lady, and instead dress them up in elaborate masks and colonial costumes. And make people dance instead of throw beads. Every dancer has a specific role: some play the Spanish colonizers—with one well-dressed gent playing the part of “the prince”—others play the indigenous and mestizos they ruled over. Still others represent people from neighboring countries—the Bolivian, the Argentine, or gaucho.

All of this is exceedingly hard to communicate without pictures, so as soon as I can put those online I certainly will. But I do want to discuss one very interesting thing I noticed at the festival. By and large, the men dressed up as men, and the women dressed up as women; a few men, however, actually…well, went in drag. And it wasn’t good Is-that-a-dude-or-a-chick drag; I mean pretty obvious, I’m-six-feet-tall-and/or-have-heavy-stubble cross-dressing. These folks were dancing along with everyone else, and though people giggled at the more flamboyant ones, no one—not a person—yelled out any sort of harassing or hateful remarks. Remember, this is a small, 20,000 person town in the middle of the central Peruvian highlands.

I asked an anthropologist I’m traveling with what was going on. He explained, very matter of factly, that this is the only outlet through which many gay or transgendered men can openly express themselves. He pointed out a very drunk man who was dressed as a pony-tailed campesina, puffy skirts and all. “This man is a mechanic. During the rest of the year, he is a serious and dedicated worker, a married man.” He said one or two things insinuating the gentleman was either bi- or homosexual. Then he said, “Instead of renouncing his family, or going to see a psychotherapist, as you do in the United States, he spends the four or five days of this festival dressed as a woman.” I’m not sure how healthy that is for one’s sexual identity, but it seemed to me that the cross-dressing men were quite happy to be a part of it.

Generally, the anthropologist described these festivals as an opportunity for “communal catharsis”—an opportunity not just to resolve sexual frustrations or simply party, but an opportunity for regular work and life schedules to stop, and the normal strictures of social life to relax. There was something to what he said, too—I saw it in the way people wore masks to conceal their identities—and they kept them on, too. All of this will be clearer once I put up pictures.

You may have noticed there was no talk of sheepherders so far; that will start tomorrow with two trips to smaller villages.