I think God is playing games with me. No, maybe God is punishing me for some past sin. Perhaps it isn't God at all, just my uncanny ability to wander blindly into places or situations I shouldn't. Several friends told me I could safely ride my mountain bike anywhere in the valley of Cajamarca [Peru], even into the surrounding mountains, without fear. But, they warned not to be caught out after dark. "Spirits live among the rock spires that will take your soul," they whispered, "and roving bands of men with rifles will take your life." It was on this advice that I felt free to travel where ever my legs led me. I don't know why I trusted superstitious people who hardly venture outside the safe confines of the city.My wife and I are serving as two year volunteers for a development project in the northern Andes of Peru; a land of rugged mountains, peasant farmers, and terrorism. We live in the Cajamarca valley at 9,000 feet, the surrounding mountains tower to over 14,000 feet. Cajamarca is one of the few mountain cities in Peru that remains relatively free from tourism. The few Westerners that do come, see a simple lifestyle little changed since the nineteenth century. There are usually more people and livestock in the streets than there are automobiles.
In 1532 Francisco Pizarro found Atahualpa, the last free ruler of the Incas, bathing his war wounds in a hot spring near Cajamarca. Atahualpa's murder was the beginning of the end for the Inca Empire. Today, the indigenous people of the Andes continue their struggle to regain dignity and shed the economic oppression of the ruling class. A few respond the only way they know how, with acts of terrorism. Most Peruvians are not violent, merely protective of what little they own. After a cordial introduction, most campesinos (rural Peruvian farmers) open their hearts and their homes to a new found gringo friend. However, it is the suspicious and the not-so-honest ones you meet that make for the best adventure. The following journal entries are just a sample of what it is like to ride a mountain bike in the Peruvian Highlands.
July 2, 1991
This afternoon I rode up the gravel pass to Chamis, a village 15 miles and 2000 feet up from the valley floor. Since it was Monday, many campesinos were stumbling drunkenly back to their villages from the weekly animal market in town. After earning a few dollars from the sale of a lamb or a pig, the men usually drink all their profits in the same afternoon. Campesinos drink homemade corn brew called chicha, or distilled sugarcane liquor called aguardiente. Most drunks I encounter on the trails are passive. The worst thing they usually do is obnoxiously wobble in front of me without warning. It is sad to watch a drunk's sober and somber wife apologetically try to keep her husband to one side of the trail.
Just before cresting the pass to Chamis, I came upon a trio of drunks, two walking and one trying to stay balanced atop a horse. When I tried to pass, the fellow on the horse wouldn't let me by. He kept his friends amused by simultaneously reining his horse in front of me to block the narrow trail and slurring profanities at the gringo. I finally tried to force my way by, but he reached down and grabbed the back of my shirt collar and swung me around in front of him. "Look at this pretty gringo I caught", he said to his friends. As we both came to a quick stop I managed to get a foot on the ground before falling. He was still holding on to my collar and laughing. Being in an awkward position, my initial reflex was to swing a clinched fist up toward his face. Even though I hadn't hit anyone since fourth grade, I made good contact with that rusty punch. He fell off his horse and covered a bloody nose with both hands. For a second I stood staring in amazement, but when all three men picked up baseball-sized rocks and began pitching fast balls at me, I took that as my cue to leave. I mounted the bicycle from a running start. My feet didn't land on the pedals, nor my rear on the seat, but at least I was rolling. Since the trail dropped steeply downhill I quickly outdistanced the cascade of rocks. When I stopped to look back at the ranting and raving drunks I was glad to see the one beside the horse still holding his nose.
July 3, 1991
Needing to work out the jitters from yesterday, I went out for another ride this afternoon. Surely not everyone in the mountains are bad folk. I even brazenly wrote a note to my wife telling her where to come look for my body should I not come home. (I briefly thought I should tear it up, but then told myself I wasn't that superstitious.) From the edge of the valley at the Tres Molinos dairy, I took a trail into the mountains that I had never seen before. The climb was steep, the perfect test for my mountain biking skills. With a nod, I acknowledged the curious stares and amused smiles from people I passed. Two little girls playing with a puppy shrieked when they saw me coming and ran to hide behind their mother's skirt. After several kilometers the trail, strewn with a maze of small boulders, was too steep and rutted to continue pedaling, so I resorted to what campesinos have been doing on that trail for centuries, walking up.
Finally, the trail leveled out and passed through a community called Llegamarca. I stopped and made small talk with several campesino farmers, asking the history of the village, what they were planting this year, and if I could continue riding higher into the mountains. Upon the recommendation of a new friend, I chose a narrow trail that switchbacked up the side of a steep canyon and continued to a community called Puruay Alto. It wasn't rideable, so I pushed my bike up the switchbacks for half an hour to see what there was to see.
At the top, as I was gazing at the desolate landscape around me and trying to catch my breath, I noticed three campesino men sitting behind me on a rock ledge. I walked over and greeted them with a "good afternoon" (it is impolite not to say hello to everyone you pass on the trail). All three men were chewing coca leaves and seemed to be a little inebriated. Since they all had similar facial structures I assumed they were three generations of the same family, the youngest being in his mid-twenties. The grandfather seriously looked me over from head to toe, and after a pause burst out laughing. At first I thought it must have been my lycra shorts. That wasn't the first time I have been laughed at, I am used to ridicule. However, I was struck by something strangely sinister that I couldn't quite pinpoint. Finally the son and grandson broke their silence and addressed me with a buenas tardes. The youngest asked me if I would like to try a bit of coca leaf.
Men who live in the higher regions of the Andes chew coca leaves to help them endure the pain of strenuous activity in the cold, thin air. It is from these very leaves that cocaine is derived. Chewing coca leaves is not illegal, you just can't process it into coca paste. I had heard about the effects of chewing coca and was curious to try some. The old man offered me a handful and explained how to put a wad between my cheek and gum. The leaves were green and dry, it was like chewing on a handful of bay leaves. Next the old man's son pulled out a wooden vial and offered me the white powder substance inside. I knew it was just lime that they use to activate the coca, but decided to ask what it was just for the heck of it. Another sinister laugh issued forth from Granddad and he said, "It's cocaine. Try some." I admitted to knowing it was lime and they all laughed again. I still didn't try any. The coca was working just fine without it, making me lightheaded and faint. It was like being given anesthesia at the dentist's office. I was enjoying it, but no longer felt in control of my own destiny.
The grandson looked at me, then at my bicycle and asked how I got up there with that "motorcycle". I declared it didn't have a motor, that it was only a bicycle. He said, "It must have a motor, no one could ride a bicycle up here." I showed him how the gears worked and explained how it was possible to ride up steep rough trails with a small gear and fat tires. They all seemed impressed and dazzled. That worried me.
Granddad asked me if I knew who his son was. I replied, "No, should I?" He told me his son is the president of Puruay Alto. I asked, "The president of what group? The community, the school, the church, what?" He laughed again and said, "No, the ronda." He waited for my reaction. The ronda is a group of men who act as the civil patrol for their community. Since Federal and State police refuse to walk to remote mountain villages, the government commissions local strongmen to police their own communities. In the name of justice these roving bands of wild men "protect" the mountains from terrorism and thievery. I was told the ronda walk patrol only at night.
I have heard stories of ronderos beating up members of the community for moral wrongdoing and also of ronderos blocking roads to solicit money for "community projects" from passersby. A few ronderos are good, others are bad. You take your chances. Remember Granddad's laugh? This was my first opportunity to find out what ronderos actually do. Granddad was waiting for my reaction. I tried not to show surprise, but my Spanish did become progressively worse from that point on.
El Presidente asked where I was from and what I was doing in his mountains. I explained how I was working in Cajamarca for two years as a volunteer, helping communities just like his get back on their feet after economic hard times. I told him my name and where he could find me in town (stupid mistake). I asked his name too. Surely, I thought, once we were on a first name basis he wouldn't try to harm me. He said his name was Jose. Then he thought real hard and said, "Jose Cordova Huaripata." He was pretty drunk. We talked about the U.S., about Peru, and about hard times. Jose asked me what I thought of his mountains and his community. He patiently listened to my reason for being in Peru and my solutions to his country's problems, but kept coming back to why I was in that particular spot at that particular moment.
Jose invited me to come with them to see their humble community. He said, "Acacito no mas, we are almost there, just to the top of the next hill." I asked how long it would take to walk there and he replied, "Only five minutes." I knew there was nothing five minutes up the trail, so I asked how far it was. He said, "five kilometers." "Now we are getting somewhere," I thought. "How long does it take you to walk those five kilometers?" I asked. Jose replied, "Oh, four or five hours." "Oh no," I said, "that is much too far. I have to ride back down to the valley before dark."
Jose abruptly changed his demeanor. He said, "You know a license is required to walk on this trail. Let me see your license." Shocked, I responded, "You're crazy. This is a public trail and I have as much right to be here as you do." If we were still four hours from his community, I knew he must be lying. After watching his features harden in anger, I politely asked where I could petition for a license and said that I would certainly do so the next time I came for a visit. Jose said he was sorry, but that it was now too late. He told me that they often lose their livestock to thieves, to wild predators, or they just get sick and die. "Who do you think pays for those lost animals?" he asked. Without waiting for a reply he said, "You or any other visitor who walks up this trail without a license has to contribute to the community." "But we don't want your money," he said, "we are going to take your bicycle." I laughed nervously and said, "You don't have any right to do that." "Sure we do," he replied, "we're the ronda." Jose directed his son to officially impound my bicycle.
There were three of them and I knew if they got their hands on my bike I would have to fight to get it back. My mother always told me it is better to give a thief what he wants rather than risk being killed trying to protect mere material possessions. Since I was still chewing on the coca, I wasn't thinking too clearly. Besides, mountain bikes are scarce in Peru. I would have never been able to replace it if it was stolen. At the same time that Jose's son tried to take possession of the bike, I jumped up, grabbed the bicycle, and said, "I think I will be going home now." I heard Granddad yell, "Don't let him get away," but I was already riding down the trail. Rocks whizzed past my ears and I could hear the shuffle of feet behind me. I spit out the wad of coca leaves and never looked back. In the first switchback I hit a deep rut and flipped over the handlebars. Before I even stopped rolling I had the bike on my shoulder and was bounding down the trail at top speed. The ronderos finally stopped chasing me, but were still hurling rocks from above. In my escape I dodged two families climbing the pass. Jose yelled for them to stop me, but luckily they didn't try. Taking no chances, I ran all the way to the plateau and rode several hundred yards down the trail. I could no longer ignore my parched mouth (exacerbated by the coca leaves) and had to stop for a drink. I could still see my tormenters yelling at me from the ridge above.
I rode along the trail in a daze, trying to shake the remaining effects of the coca, and trying to rationalize what had just happened. Maybe I shouldn't have left that note for my wife after all. When I neared the village of Llegamarca, four men blocked the middle of the path. Several others ran out of the school and joined them. "Oh no," I thought, "not more ronderos." One of them held his hand up and asked me to stop for a second. "Not on your life buddy," I said to myself, "I am not going through this again." Based on the experiences still so fresh in my mind, I figured if I ran they wouldn't chase me for long. The trail was smooth and straight, so I had a pretty good chance to get away. After what I had just been through nobody was taking my bicycle from me now. I muttered something in Spanish about not having time to stop and busted through the line of men at full speed. They yelled for the others nearby to stop me. An old woman even grabbed my bicycle rack and held on for a few yards. When she finally fell to the ground I thought I was free at last.
The chase was on. I got a good head start but soon the trail bombed straight down a steep grade and I found myself bouncing over rocks half the size of my front wheel. I tried to look cool as I passed people coming up the trail, greeting them with a buenas tardes and an uneasy smile. Most of them said hello, but I could tell they were wondering why a gang of riotous men was running behind me. This impromptu posse began recruiting more members as they ran down the trail. I could hear the number of voices increasing to a dull roar. "If I can only get back on a smooth track," I thought, "I can easily outdistance them." When my front tire blew out I knew it was the beginning of the end. The tire came off the rim and I kept losing the front wheel in deep ruts. Two barking hounds ran along both sides of me and snapped at my heels. The inner tube came out of the tire and wrapped around the front axle, bringing me to a quick stop. I shouldered my bicycle and took off on foot. I didn't know where I was running to, but by this time the world wasn't making any sense to me anyway. I had the nightmarish sensation of fleeing wild Indians in a bad Western movie.
Two of the fastest teenage boys quickly caught up with me. One of them pulled the bicycle from my shoulder and motioned at the rock in his hand, threatening to hit me if I continued to run. "Where is the mirror?" he demanded. "You stole a mirror off of the pick-up. What did you do with it, throw it down?" "Oh great," I thought, "Now the ronderos are setting me up to look like a thief and won't let me go until I give them my bicycle or at least pay a bribe." I soon had a crowd of fifty sweaty, out of breath men gathered around me asking what I had done with the mirror. A young boy handed me my water bottle and said I dropped it during the chase. The man who first tried to stop me in Llegamarca said a woman saw me steal her truck mirror and ride up this trail into the mountains. Again I denied stealing the truck mirror or knowing anything about it. I said the lady was mistaken. "Why would I steal a truck mirror?" I babbled, "I don't even own a truck. Besides I am already much richer than you people are." (A stupid thing to say, but by this time I was getting desperate.)
While we were waiting for the owner of the truck to walk down the hill and convict me, someone asked why I didn't just stop when they asked me to. "Look what you have done to your bicycle," he said, "what a shame." I tried to explain about my previous encounter with El Presidente and how he had attempted to steal my bicycle. I told him how I thought they were all in it together. Several laughed and said they didn't want my bicycle or anything else. Someone who introduced himself as the mayor of Llegamarca said the ronderos I was talking about were irresponsible drunks from another community. The mayor explained that his men were working in the school when this city woman, who had walked up from the valley, accused me of stealing her mirror. They were only trying to be neighborly and help her out he explained.
My accuser still hadn't arrived so I asked permission to fix my flat. They all watched in amazement as I took the wheel off and installed a new tube without any tools. I handed the shredded tube to a fellow standing beside me. He grinned widely and bragged to those around him about how many sling-shots he could make from it. Out of nowhere someone offered me an old floor pump for my tire. I said I didn't need it and showed how my nifty little plastic frame pump worked. An old fellow on a horse ambled by and asked what was going on. Someone in the crowd who addressed the old man as "Tio Alberto" told him they were just watching the maestro fix his bicycle.
When my accuser finally arrived she took one look at me and told them I wasn't the one she saw with her mirror. The leaders of the posse apologized for the inconvenience and asked for my forgiveness. "If you had only stopped when we asked you to none of this would have happened," someone said. I told them I would have stopped under normal circumstances, but that it hadn't been a normal day. I shook hands with everyone and the mayor even invited me to visit Llegamarca any time I wanted. As I was leaving a young girl tugged on my shirt and said, "Don't pay any attention to those guys, they are all stupid. They should know that a gringo silly enough to be aimlessly riding a bicycle around in the mountains wouldn't have stolen someone's mirror."
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