The total raised for Shelterbox is ...£9149.23
Wow! Thank you everybody who has helped.
I´m so so impressed.
Miles so far 31,126 (50,092km)
Wow! Thank you everybody who has helped.
I´m so so impressed.
Miles so far 31,126 (50,092km)
Friday, 13 May 2011
Saturday, 7 May 2011
Chacchan
Along the banks of the river Casma the barren desert soil erupts in lush greens; rows of orange trees and grape vines extend away from the water´s edge, and brightly coloured flowers line the hedges.
I climbed the road for 47 hot miles until a truck stopped me and a man said it was impossible to pass further ahead, as the road was blocked by rocks. It was being cleared, he said, but would not be passable until the morning.
I cycled slowly into the next hamlet, to the usual whispers, calls and shouts of ´gringo´ and asked a lady sitting outside her house if she knew of anywhere I could camp.
"Here." she said, "There. Anywhere."
I picked there, and she said that there would be a bad place because there was pig shit everywhere, and that here would be better, so I said that here would be fine.
The lady´s name was Maria. An older lady, who I took to be Maria´s mother, sat beside her on the concrete step.
"Where´s he from?" the old lady asked Maria.
"Where are you from?" Maria asked me.
"England," I said.
"England, he says."
"How old is he?" asked the old lady.
"How old are you?" Maria asked me.
"I´m 25."
"He´s 25"
"What´s his..."
"Why don´t you ask him yourself?"
And from that point on the questions were asked directly, from one person to the other.
We sat in Maria´s house. Bare dry dirt walls and a dusty floor. Wicker furniture, a television, calenders with garish depictions of Jesus, a broken scanner, and shelves of clothes Maria had bought in Lima to sell here, in Chacchan. A line of bottles. Pepsi. Fanta. Inka-Kola. Brown cardboard boxes. A steady stream of visitors would later reveal to me that this was the village´s department store.
Maria asked me about England. About how much money people make. I found myself understating salaries and hourly rates, and trying to emphasise how expensive everything is. But still a look of distracted disbelief crept across Maria´s face.
"There´s nothing to do here," she said. "People can only work in the fields. I just sell these things. Almost all the young people leave."
Soon Maria´s husband Marcos came home . From the television a dubbed Baywatch momentarily filled the room, before Marcos put on some videos of traditional Peruvian music. Harps, panpipes and fat men in white suits.
Children poked their heads round the open door, eyes resting on the stranger momentarily and noticeably forgetting the task they had been sent for.
"Errmm,,,¡vendame!"
"¿Qué?"
"Coca."
And Marcos got up, walked to one of the cardboard boxes, took out a small bag of coca leaves and the children gave him 1 nuevo sol.
One family stayed the whole evening. Two children trying on new clothes, and getting excited about new shoes or a pink cardigan. The father sat, visibly wincing at each new item taken from the shelves, and spoke with Marcos, falling unconsciously it seemed, from Quechua to Spanish and back again.
I slept well in my tent and woke with the pigs, the dogs, the donkeys and cows. The villagers also up, rising before dawn.
In a tiny room, away from the house, Maria cooked breakfast. Smoke filled the air, and billowed in the strong shafts of morning light. Flies buzzed, incessantly in the smoke and hovered over red buckets of water. From under the mud-walled stove, two guinea pigs came out and foraged on the floor, unaware that since birth they had been destined for the fire above.
I promised I would send Marcos and Maria the photos I had taken, but as I posted the letter, just 50 miles away, I felt doubtful that it would ever arrive. The address Marcos had given me contained no numbers, nor the name of a house. The envelope seemed to read something like this:
Please send to Marcus Sanchez
Who lives near Pariacota
In a house made of mud and straw
With some pigs and a dog outside of it.
Sender: Sam Gambier, Huaraz.
Coca tea.
I climbed the road for 47 hot miles until a truck stopped me and a man said it was impossible to pass further ahead, as the road was blocked by rocks. It was being cleared, he said, but would not be passable until the morning.
I cycled slowly into the next hamlet, to the usual whispers, calls and shouts of ´gringo´ and asked a lady sitting outside her house if she knew of anywhere I could camp.
"Here." she said, "There. Anywhere."
I picked there, and she said that there would be a bad place because there was pig shit everywhere, and that here would be better, so I said that here would be fine.
The lady´s name was Maria. An older lady, who I took to be Maria´s mother, sat beside her on the concrete step.
"Where´s he from?" the old lady asked Maria.
"Where are you from?" Maria asked me.
"England," I said.
"England, he says."
"How old is he?" asked the old lady.
"How old are you?" Maria asked me.
"I´m 25."
"He´s 25"
"What´s his..."
"Why don´t you ask him yourself?"
And from that point on the questions were asked directly, from one person to the other.
We sat in Maria´s house. Bare dry dirt walls and a dusty floor. Wicker furniture, a television, calenders with garish depictions of Jesus, a broken scanner, and shelves of clothes Maria had bought in Lima to sell here, in Chacchan. A line of bottles. Pepsi. Fanta. Inka-Kola. Brown cardboard boxes. A steady stream of visitors would later reveal to me that this was the village´s department store.
Maria asked me about England. About how much money people make. I found myself understating salaries and hourly rates, and trying to emphasise how expensive everything is. But still a look of distracted disbelief crept across Maria´s face.
"There´s nothing to do here," she said. "People can only work in the fields. I just sell these things. Almost all the young people leave."
Soon Maria´s husband Marcos came home . From the television a dubbed Baywatch momentarily filled the room, before Marcos put on some videos of traditional Peruvian music. Harps, panpipes and fat men in white suits.
Children poked their heads round the open door, eyes resting on the stranger momentarily and noticeably forgetting the task they had been sent for.
"Errmm,,,¡vendame!"
"¿Qué?"
"Coca."
And Marcos got up, walked to one of the cardboard boxes, took out a small bag of coca leaves and the children gave him 1 nuevo sol.
One family stayed the whole evening. Two children trying on new clothes, and getting excited about new shoes or a pink cardigan. The father sat, visibly wincing at each new item taken from the shelves, and spoke with Marcos, falling unconsciously it seemed, from Quechua to Spanish and back again.
I slept well in my tent and woke with the pigs, the dogs, the donkeys and cows. The villagers also up, rising before dawn.
In a tiny room, away from the house, Maria cooked breakfast. Smoke filled the air, and billowed in the strong shafts of morning light. Flies buzzed, incessantly in the smoke and hovered over red buckets of water. From under the mud-walled stove, two guinea pigs came out and foraged on the floor, unaware that since birth they had been destined for the fire above.
I promised I would send Marcos and Maria the photos I had taken, but as I posted the letter, just 50 miles away, I felt doubtful that it would ever arrive. The address Marcos had given me contained no numbers, nor the name of a house. The envelope seemed to read something like this:
Please send to Marcus Sanchez
Who lives near Pariacota
In a house made of mud and straw
With some pigs and a dog outside of it.
Sender: Sam Gambier, Huaraz.
Coca tea.
Thursday, 5 May 2011
Wednesday, 4 May 2011
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