It might seem strange to tell a story about how I left the small town of Huari before I talk much about how I got there, but the story is fairly representative of how transportation operates there.
It was my last day in Huari before returning alone to Lima. I had bought a bus ticket for 4 pm on Sunday, though everyone but me seemed to know we had a party planned for Sunday afternoon. The director's parents, assorted townies who seemed to know the family, and the Italian crew of a nearby project poured into the house to help cooke the Pachamanca, a traditional meal which means "food cooked in the ground." This included not only the rabbits and guinea pigs that had been living in the loft above our house, but also chicken, goat, pork, sweet potatoes, potatoes, and beans. They made a big oven by building a fire beneath hot stones, then threw the potatoes on the rocks and covered them with a layer of plants. Then came the meat, which was wrapped in paper, and more plants. Then they shoveled dirt over the whole thing, made a big mound to seal in all the heat, and let it cook for an hour. I was extremely sketched out while we were doing this, and was happy when I heard lunch wouldn't be ready until 3:40. Surely I'd have to be on my way to the bus station by then. However. Bebel's family insisted I eat before I left, and as soon as the meat was unwrapped they loaded the very first plate for me with choice cuts while everyone else stood in a line and watched me chow down. Despite my initial unease, the meat ended up being some of the best-tasting I'd had in a long time. Who knew.
However, I did have a bus to catch, and by the time I had said my goodbyes to my team I barely had 5 minutes 'til departure time. I ran, with my 50-lb. backpack and awkward duffel, up the steep path leading to town. The ensuing burning in my lungs was the closest thing to the aftermath of an 800-meter relay I had experienced in years. When I did get to the station at 4:02, the bus was still there. It was still there at 4:18, when I had been sitting in my own sweat, breathing heavily and looking ridiculous, for over 15 minutes. This is called Peruvian time.
Eventually the bus left the station. The first few hours were gorgeous, moving through cultivated valleys of green and gold, and I kicked myself for leaving my camera with my luggage. I had plenty of legroom, having chosen a seat in the first row. Once the sun went down, though, it was time for the en route entertainment, otherwise known as my own personal hell. There was a tiny TV playing a DVD of what could only be described as music videos, though they were unlike any I hope to be subjected to again. They consisted of women in pseudo-traditional Andean dress belting out pop ballads with pseudo-traditional melodies and rhythms, and lyrics about beer and being single. The closest analogy I could think of was our country western music, just in terms of the folksy-cheesy-abrasive combination. It didn't help that the DVD was 5 hours long or that the volume was piercing. At first I could tune it out, but eventually it became unbearable. I was tempted to get up and call for a vote as to who really wanted this music to keep playing, but I didn't want to be that weird gringo girl who was culturally insensitive. Instead I opted for subtler methods, trying to shatter the screen with my Glare Of Doom™. Failing in that, I tried to sleep, which proved equally futile.
Around midnight the torture seemed to have come to an end. I finally let myself settle in for sleep, and was about to drift off when, after 5 minutes of silence, I heard "MOOOOOOO!" from the direction of the TV. It turned out the DVD had not ended, but had simply stopped working temporarily and skipped to some later part which included farm animals. The music resumed for about 5 minutes, then stopped again, and the pattern continued for at least an hour more.
Finally, it ended. I slept fitfully in my seat for the remainder of the 12-hour journey. I arrived in Lima, groggily grabbed a taxi, and tried to find the project house where I was planning to spend the next two days. It turned out to be in a horrible, distant part of town on a street that mysteriously disappears and then reappears, and the poor driver was going berserk until we ran into a woman on the street who knew the family and gave us directions.
I was so relieved to find that house. What I didn't know was that the next day I would end up locked in the house all morning with no e-mail, food, or escape of any kind. But that is another story altogether.
