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Lago Paron

by Scott Kloos





My stuff is ready to head for Caraz and Lago Paron in the Cordillera Blanca. I hear thunder and can see lightning outside. It starts raining pretty hard until it can rain no harder. The downhill streets are like rivers. Water is up to the middle of the wheels of the cars. The power goes out. The owner of the hotel assures me that the rain will last only 45 minutes. The power comes back, the rain slows, and I make my way across town, jumping over streams and puddles in the streets, to the bridge where the colectivo minivans load. Water gushes out from under manhole covers. The streets smell shittier than normal. People are drenched. The vendors hesitantly reassemble their wares.

Along the road, which follows the Rio Santo, by now a brown, frothy mess, groups of villagers work to repair damaged drainage ditches. Mud and rock debris cover the road. We can barely pass where a small hillside has collapsed. Below, fields of corn have been wiped out. I get a room in Caraz, eat some food, and try to sleep. The bus leaves for Paron at 4 am.

After asking several of the many people awake in this pre-dawn night, I figure out where the bus loads. We head out and climb in the dark through groves of coppiced eucalypts, huge white flowering cacti, and the usual fields of corn and potatoes. The stars are incredible. We pass little sleepy villages of mud brick. Small waterfalls cascade down and run across the road. In the moonlight I can see the double peaks of the Huandoy glacier. There are a few people on the road walking with cows. I start to think about my ex-girlfriend, and a bird hits the window of the bus. I see it fall a foot or two and fly off. I'm sure that it was an owl. They and thoughts of home haunt me.

We arrive at the end of the line. I was planning on getting some food here but even in the dark I can see that there is nothing-a few scattered huts and fields of crop supplied with water by fast-flowing irrigation ditches. The driver of the bus confirms my suspicion and points out the way to the lake.

Soon I am alone in the Andes hiking up through a massive glacier-carved, U-shaped valley taking short cuts in the dark up rocky slopes. My clothes are dripping wet from the dew of the high elevation tropical shrubs that impede my passage. A near deafening chorus of birdsong rises with the false dawn. I stop to replenish my coca leaf wad. Some of these birds sound familiar but most are new. I have seen many amazing birds of every different color.

I have been walking many hours. I push on and there they are-the 20,000 ft. peaks that surround the lake. I have emerged from the canyon just in time to see the sun rise over some of the tallest peaks in the Andes. This is Heaven.

At the lake a smiling man, caretaker of the underground hydroelectric plant, greets me. He points out the path that leads to the other side of the incredibly beautiful, color of cream of avocado soup lake and tells me that I have to get back here by noon to make it down the hill to catch the last bus back to town. I have several hours.

The path hovers at times above cliffs that plunge down to the lake's edge. The wind blows intricate patterns that ripple across its face. I stop frequently to drink from the clean, sweet glacier-melted water that streams down from above. A few cows lounge at the side of the trail. There is no one in sight. My goal is the opposite side where a raging stream enters the lake beneath the towering glaciers. I take off my clothes and crawl in. The water is freezing but cleansing. I am not that hungry but eat a handful of old bread and prepare to head back.

There is a group of people assembled at the watch station. Some with cameras and microphones, others in suits and hardhats. I ask two guys who work for the National Park sitting off to the side if I can get a ride down. Sure, they say. I find out from them that this is a meeting between conservationists and engineers to discuss the abnormally low water levels in the lake. It seems more like a photo opportunity filled with proclamations. They seem to be as annoyed with it.

The ride down, in the back of my dream vehicle, a Toyota Hi-lux Diesel 4x4, is fantastic. I hold onto the rollbar to maintain my balance as I'm bucked around on the rough road. I duck to avoid branches. Bugs hit my face. In the distance the mountains are covered with cultivated fields. The glacier-carved valley is even more impressive in the daylight. Trickles of water fall hundreds of meters to gently mist me. We pass through villages where every crazy dog in the world chases us barking like mad and almost gets hit. People wave. The farms are beautiful. The animals seem happy tied up in fields feeding on the remains of the already harvested crops.

We come around a curve to see a log surrounded by 30 or 40 men blocking the road. They seem to be somewhat hostile. A few of the men guide the trucks to the side of road. They belong to a group of indigenous men called Cruz de Mayo and they want to know what is going on with the decisions made above. Of course they were not consulted even though they will probably be impacted most. The truck with the engineers is last in the line and it slips past the blockade and speeds off. Some of the men are really pissed but a few of the journalists and National Park guys go off to the enclosed futbol field and talk with the men to explain what has transpired.

I sit down on the steps of a shady porch, tired and hot, burnt to hell by the sun. The town drunks descend upon me. One guy asks me something about the lake but I can't understand him because he is slurring and speaking half his words in Quechua.

-I don't understand, I say.

A young drunk comes stumbling up: He is asking you if you liked the lake.

-Of course. Very beautiful.

-Yes. Jesucristo put that lake up there for the birds and the fish and for us, he says, almost crying, obviously frustrated.

The young guy gets in my face. I can smell the cheap booze on his breath. What are you, the chief of this operation, gringo. You work for the bank?

-Nope, just hitching a ride.

-What do you do?

-I go to the mountains in my country and collect herbs and make medicine.

-Oh, yeah? What can you do for his foot? He points to a little wiry old guy with bright eyes and a great toothless smile. He looks as if he hasn't bathed this year and his big toe has a gash in it that is bleeding heavily. He doesn't seem to care.

I can't remember the Spanish name for Plantain but try to explain it to them. Finally the old toothless guy smiles and says: Llanten? Yes, I cry. Everybody seems happy. Is there any around? Yes, they all say nodding, but nobody moves. The old guy sits there and every few minutes with a goofy grin on his face looks at me and nods slowly drawing out the name: Llaaaanteeen. His foot continues to bleed. I start to get up to find some myself when another drunk walks up.

-Can I have your truck, gringo?

-It's not mine.

-Come on, gringito, give me the truck, he says, stroking the fender.

Then he touches my shoes. Look, you have shoes, but we have nothing, pointing to his dirty, heavily calloused and severely fucked up feet. Gimme a little money. I want some alcohol. I need the alcohol puro, 96 percent.

His nose is covered with crusted snot and he smells of booze and farm animals. A village woman walks by. Do you want her? She is very pretty, no?

-Yes, very pretty. I lie and tell him I already have a woman.

Just one? he laughs. I have 5. His eyes light up and he turns to the crowd. We can cross this gringo with one of our women and make a gringito who can drive me around in my new truck. Looks back at me. Send me a gringa from the United States? Do you have a sister?

-I wouldn't send you my worst enemy's sister, I say with a smile. Everybody laughs.

The gate to the futbol field opens and people pour out. The truck starts up. I hop in back and say goodbye. We drive off and I get back to Huaraz just in time to catch the night bus to Trujillo.

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