Pt. 11: Its Not Over Yet?/ Naked On A Roof

By the time we got to Ambo, I was ready for the trip to end. Not that I really wanted to be back in Lima-- more than anything I just wanted to bathe. We had been gone for a full eight days; I'd had one full-body bath, two hair-and-arms-only scrubbings, and daily face and teeth splashes. Neither my clothes nor my skin were the color they should have been.

We arrived in Ambo and paid a taxi to take us up the road to Huánuco, a 30-45 minute ride. I'd felt fine in the sierra; yes, I was dirty, but so was everyone else. Not that they are dirty people! But because everyone lives close to the land without running water, everyone appears the same. Ambo and Huánuco - now that was a different story.

Walking through the streets of Huánuco, I have rarely felt so uncomfortable or stared at. As Lucho later put it, people stared at us as if we were trash collectors. Except I feel that trash collectors receive much less attention - they slip under the radar more. Not us. I wanted to hide my black, scorched, peeling face; never have I been so pained to see my image reflected in store windows. Luckily, we didn't have to return to Lima that way. Thank God Luis had thought ahead and planned a few hours to bathe in his aunt's house in Huánuco.

I was so tired that I barely remember Huánuco. I remember a sea of brown -dirt and dust everywhere. I remember lots of bustle -back to a world of vendors on every corner, markets on every street, people coming and going and filling the sidewalks and streets. Oh yes, and back to a world with cars -I was nearly killed several times attempting to cross a street without paying attention. Eight days and I'd already forgotten about the car factor.

Like Lima, Huánuco is surrounded by hills on which families live, densely packed into often questionably-constructed homes. I asked Lucho where his aunt lived; he pointed to the top of the highest hill. Of course. I wouldn't have believed anything else - it was perfectly in keeping with the nature of our trip so far, there would be no alternative way to end it other than an insufferable climb.

We got to the base of the hill; I looked up. You've seen pictures of ancient Mayan temples with stairs that seem to go on for days? Well, it was like that. Except longer. There must have been thousands of stairs; I actually had a difficult time seeing the top. There we stood, filthy, exhausted, loaded down with our bags and winter coats we had shed in the sharp sun. Without taking my eyes off the stairs, I spoke to Lucho. I asked tentatively, afraid of the answer: So, how far up are we going? His gaze remained on the stairs as well - I think he feared looking at me directly - and answered in half defeat: The very top. So, we climbed. And climbed, and climbed. It took over 40 minutes to reach the top - and we barely stopped to rest at all.

Luis' aunt lives in a one-room house with her one-armed husband and a slew of children. I have no idea how he lost his arm, nor do I know how many children they have; I suspect that some were actually grandchildren, babies of the two oldest girls. They were perfectly nice, incredibly gracious, wonderful people. Unfortunately, I was too exhausted to be a good guest. I just wanted a bath.

Because the house had been built into the cliff side in a stair-step fashion, the shower was actually on the roof. Oh, another thing about Huánuco: it is windy. Powerfully, frighteningly windy. The wind rips through the city with such force I fear that the house will collapse. With that in mind, I climbed to the roof with my shampoo, toothbrush, and change of clothes. There is no door on the shower, so I carried with me a large piece of cloth to create privacy. It is a small room with a low shower head from which flows a strong stream of icy cold water. The floor is cement - slippery cement - that slopes steeply towards the large open drain hole in the center, like a funnel. My feet keep slipping as I stand spread-eagled on the flat edges; I fear that I will slip, break my ankle as my foot enters the rough-edged drain, and crack my head against the unforgiving cement wall as I go down. There is nowhere to put my things: anything put on the floor will slide immediately down the drain; there is no shelf, and all flat surfaces are wet. My shoes and dirty clothes get soaked. I manage to tuck the cloth into a pipe and create a semi-door -- although there isn't anyone to see other than the sheep, pigs, and chickens that also live on the roof. Well, here is where the wind comes into play: halfway through my shower, as I am shivering and soapy, the wind gusts and the cloth goes flying. Not only am I in full view of whomever might appear, I am at the mercy of the icy wind. It was possibly one of the most uncomfortable showers I have ever taken, but I was in no position to complain. Clean is clean.

We then had to deal with the problem of my soaked shoes. Normally, I would endure it. But it was already cold, and I didn't think spending the next 15 hours with cold, wet feet would be comfortable; nor would Luis permit that I stay that way. We descended the hill to search for shoes; I was already in a bad mood, didn't see anything I liked, and didn't want to waste money; I moped and dragged my wet feet like a dissatisfied two-year-old through the stores with Luis and his uncle in tow. Eventually Luis got so sick of my attitude that he took charge. He bought me a pair of shoes and socks, sat me on the nearest bench, and physically put them on my feet. We bought dinner from one of the many food vendors that sells fried chicken feet and gizzards: they are surprisingly good once you get over the fact of what they are. I ducked into an internet cafe for 20 minutes and assessed the damage: my account was inundated with "where are you?" emails that began as curiosity and ran the gamut to full scale frantic worry and panic as the week had progressed without word of me.

I was relieved when the hour finally came to board the bus to Lima. I had enjoyed Luis' aunt and uncle -I can't reiterate enough what good people they are- but I had surpassed the point at which I could no longer carry on a conversation hours before the conversation actually ended. We passed the night without event on a now-typical bus trip: slightly nauseated and overheated; being re-covered every half hour by Lucho; drifting in and out of sleep and praying frantically every waking moment that the driver be sober, that we not drive off a cliff, and that we arrive in Lima safely.

We arrived in Lima the following morning at 6AM, utterly exhausted and less than ready to rejoin the real world.