LES BROOK writes......
Monday 31 July 2006
Barranca towards Conococha
Today was not for anyone with a weak disposition, and the same warning may be appropriate to anyone reading this diary entry.
It started out ok. Our nightstop was fine, though MM who, unusually, parked a few metres away from us, found that her spot was next door to a house owned by market traders, and at 04.30, they started their preparations for the day’s work.
We’d decided to set off at 09.00 and I used the spare time this gave me to do a small repair on the van and some essential shopping for bananas and bread. The quality (and indeed availability) of the latter continues to be a problem, but when you can find it it’s a bit better here than down south.
The short journey from Barranca to the Chimu castle beyond Paramonga included another silly encounter with the police. They stopped us just beyond a bridge and we were accused of breaking the 45kph limit which applies to the road under the bridge. This restriction was not signed, but it could be that all bridges in Peru have such a restriction. Who knows?
Whatever, we produced our documents and protested our innocence, notwithstanding the fact that we may well have been going at 46kph. Matters started to go our way when the speed we were alleged to be travelling was quoted as 78kph. This is more or less our maximum speed, and there was no way we were travelling that fast. So we said so.
In the end, the boss copper came to speak to us, ticket at the ready, and we told him in no uncertain terms that we were NOT going that fast. And where’s the evidence anyway? He backed off and we were allowed to continue.
The fortaleza is a very impressive monument, and in excellent condition. It stands right by the modern PanAmericana, testimony to the antiquity of this route. It was built c1400 by the Chimu empire as a southern frontier castle, but did not survive the Inca onslaught that then enveloped a great swathe of the west coast. It’s built of adobe in the form of a stepped pyramid on a large natural rock hill and when you climb it, you find that this is one of c7 hills in a very small area, and all but 2 have (what appear to be) Chimu buildings. This makes Paramonga a very big complex indeed.
We walk the major building. There’s no interior: the few rooms are therefore on the outside. These include an excellent guard tower to the north and a complex of quarters on the very top. It has the bulk of a British castle from the same period, but not the finesse nor the architectural interest. Fine nonetheless: a good intro to Chimu culture of which there’ll be more further north.
After a drink, we drive back a few kms and then turn left up the valley of the Rio Fortaleza (now there’s a coincidence) which majors on sugar cane. Our second police patrol of the day comes into view in the first km but they merely advise us that the road is bendy and to drive tranquillo. Onwards and upwards, very gently with no steep hills, with greenery all the way in the valley bottom. We stop again to pay a toll, and end up with a 10 minute argument about whether we are a camioneta (a ‘little lorry’) or a camion (a big one). The price difference is 7.50 soles or 22 soles. We win when our third policeman of the day intervenes, and the clinching argument is the bundle of toll receipts we have collected saying we are a camioneta. As we progress, MM announces that we’re invited for shepherd’s pie tonight. Everything’s very tranquillo: more police in Chasquitambo, but we’re not stopped.
It’s now c12.15, and a lunch stop beckons. As we turn a sharp right corner there’s a promising, flat area off to the right but we’re well past it, and as MM rounds the bend we stop and radio her to test if it’s ok. She does so by driving on and then reversing to get the best place. I follow events in my mirror and watch in astonishment as the van gently tips over on its side. MM comes on the CB: “I think I’ve fallen off the road”.
Margaret and I run back to see what’s happened and to assist. Is Maureen ok? The answer is a very positive ‘yes’ . She’s now suspended in her seat belt high in the cab, but unhurt and in excellent humour! The van engine is still running and the rear wheels are still turning in mid-air. I urge her to turn the engine off which she does after a minute or so: she needs to regain the confidence to move (later she says that she thought the van might tip over even more) and then right herself so that she can operate the pedals, gear stick and keys.
But what tipped the van over? The answer is a deep drainage ditch that is virtually invisible even from a few metres away.
The van’s roadside wheels rode over the drainpipe that takes the water under the carriageway, but the passenger side wheels just disappeared into the hole and the van could not remain upright. Moreover, the rear end is now in the ditch so the entire undercarriage is visible and the vehicle is resting on the bottom metre or so of the passenger side bodywork. It is difficult to see how the vehicle can be extracted (it is tipped at crazy angles both sideways and backwards), let alone how it can be extracted in one piece, and goodness knows what damage has already occurred.
A collectivo [small minibus] stops and everybody jumps out. They can’t do anything but promise to tell the police down in Chasquitambo: the police, the ROAD police, are surely the best people to assist in this situation. They arrive 10 minutes after the incident and are indeed very helpful – but can offer little by way of material assistance. My idea that there will be a towing vehicle on the well-populated coastal strip is clearly fanciful and the probability of MM’s van being destroyed even as it is rescued seems ever more likely.
Against our advice and MM’s express wishes, she is extricated from the cab and helped to the ground. This process requires 2 policemen and 2 passing motorists. MM, still in great heart, gets a big laugh when she expresses pantomime delight at the prospect of falling into the arms of a hunky young PC!
We warning-triangle the road at this stage as rampant buses look likely to mow down one or more of the people working at the edge of the road, and 2 of the police leave to get a mechanic from the village. A big lorry stops opposite and offers to pull MM out and is directed backwards by PC Hunk to park up safely and await instructions.
The police plus mechanic return and things move very swiftly. I say my piece but then accept that whatever MM or I say or think, the business is out of our hands. Spare tyres are placed under the recumbent side and a chain attached to the lorry is strung around the up-in-the-air front axle of the van and I rush back to our van for my camera. When I turn round, MM’s vehicle is upright and almost out of the ditch. Amazing!
Is the vehicle ok? The answer is an inconceivable ‘yes’. It is driveable, has lost no essential bodily fluids, and the bodywork, though part-dented, is in far better condition that might be expected from a modest crash. Totally remarkable. Later we find that not one of MM’s eggs broke and the only casualties inside are a spilt, but not broken, ceramic salt pig and a butter dish which landed (butter side up of course) on a cushion and a side window.
Thanks (and payment) are generously given all round. A police charity also gets a donation.
The police now ask us to go back with them to the village and make a denunciation. We do, but in the end neither a denunciation nor a blood test prove necessary: these are only obligatory when people are injured or insurance claims will be made.
Margaret and I had been very, very impressed with the way MM had handled herself throughout but were nevertheless concerned she may suffer a reaction, so when we inspected the van again and especially MM’s side door step which was mangled, I took the opportunity to encourage her to get a pro-tem repair here, which would mean a delay before we drove off. MM agreed and we searched out ‘Senor Castrol’, our helpful mechanic. It took a couple of hours of banging and welding to do the work and we filled the time with the dregs of an interrupted lunch, much tea drinking, and a lot of talking to the local kids.
16.00 and all is done. Despite the calamitous events of the last few hours, we’ve only lost a net couple of hours and we all agree we’ve emerged smelling of roses. We can’t believe our luck.
The road continues to climb gently for 20-30 minutes and then the inevitable, steep bends begin as we leave the cultivated fields and swing into serious gorges and mountains. It’s 17.15 before we’re entirely happy with a roadside spot. There have been many others, but they have all been on an unacceptable tilt. This one has diabolical road noise, but the volume of traffic is low, and there’s no alternative.
We occupy ourselves gainfully till 18.30 when shepherd’s pie is served in the van of the utterly-delighted-at-her-good-fortune Mrs Maureen June Middleton. And what a lovely meal it is too. Pity about the orange cake, the dish of the day that did fall victim to the ditch of the day.
No comments:
Post a Comment