Cloud Road (21 page)

In 1919, the quietly spoken native of the highlands discovered this site at Chavín de Huantar, and gradually revealed it was of fundamental importance to Andean history. Around 1500
BC
, it had developed a system of rituals, beliefs and designs; a theocracy which came to dominate the region. Pilgrims did not come empty-handed. Chavín exported culture, and imported obeisance and tribute. With the wealth, they built one of the greatest temples of the Americas.

Tello realized Chavín was old; but before radiocarbon dating, he could not accurately determine the relative ages of his sites. He incorrectly championed Chavín as the cradle civilisation of the Andes. We now know that around 500
BC
there was a huge El Niño event that destroyed the dominant coastal civilisations, and created a vacuum into which the Chavín steadily and peaceably expanded until 200
BC
.

We followed the route that pilgrims would have followed, as they arrived to petition the oracles. They might question disturbances in the expected order of things:
What had caused that late frost, killing the young shoots? Did someone offend the gods by committing adultery?

They would be directed to the back wall of the temple. Accustomed to a landscape in which the grandest structures were small low huts, they crept below a 150-yard long wall rising four storeys above them and studded with grotesque half-ton stone heads. A human face on the first tenon head would, on the second one, be subtly morphed: less human, more feline. On the next, the eyes bulged, the canine teeth became fangs and the nostrils streamed a mucous discharge caused by mescaline from the San Pedro cactus. At other times the priests took the
more toxic seeds of
vilca
or
epena,
laden with tryptamine; and transformed themselves into jaguars. They leaped into that other world, where things on earth were decided, to communicate with celestial forces and negotiate with the supernatural.

Pilgrims would gather in a large rectangular plaza, closed on three sides, with a sunken courtyard in the middle. Here they were embraced in the arms of a sacred U-shape that focused the natural forces of the heavens and earth, and maintained them in harmony, with the help of intercessions from the priests and the offerings of pilgrims. At night, they would see the Pleiades descend to set 13.5° north of west, exactly where the shining white granite from which the left side of the temple met the black limestone of the right-hand side. In Quechua, the star cluster is called
Qolqa
, or the granary, and their rising was associated with the planting of crops. If they appeared clear and bright, like a handful of seeds, the crop would be good. We know this from the witch-hunter, the scourge of idolatry, Francisco de Avila. His diligent records of investigations into heresies preserved the ancient religion forever. He recorded this detail in Huarochirí, the village that three and a half centuries later gave birth to Julio Tello. Perhaps this was all many of them were ever permitted to see: like being allowed into the nave of a cathedral, but not to approach the altar or seek communion. Nobles were granted more. After fasting, they could continue, and enter a much smaller circular sunken court with a frieze of jaguars running towards a central staircase. It led to the heart of the old temple, and to a chamber where not even kings might tread.

We postponed the climax of seeing the Lanzón chamber
to explore the underground engine that made its god so awe-inspiring. Half-hidden in the grass was a narrow flight of stairs leading under the ground. We squeezed into the constricted passage, our bodies blocking out all natural light. There was a labyrinth of neatly finished low stone tunnels; over half a mile of them have been found under the site. To our right, a drain entered three feet above the floor level of the main tunnel. Stone lips had been placed halfway up to break the force of the falling water. Once built, much of this network was locked inside solid masonry, and could never be accessed again to maintain it. But after two and a half thousand years of Andean storms, hardly any damage is to be seen. Elaine said, ‘Let’s hope it doesn’t rain,’ and although I knew the sky was cloudless, a shudder of claustrophobia passed through me. We followed the finest tunnel down a long, precise curve to our left. Wherever the gradient was steep, there were steps or vertical lips to disperse the water’s energy and protect the tunnel’s stone lining. We came to a junction with another main channel. A black beetle with ferocious claws scurried over the bluish clay floor. ‘I can’t breathe properly walking bent double,’ gasped Elaine.

I nodded. ‘I’m being bitten by flies and gnats. Put out the lamps while we catch our breath.’

Underground blackness is so deep you can almost reach out your fingers and clench it. Then, we heard something. We held our breath. It was something alive, moving very quietly. If it wasn’t for the darkness, and the absolute silence of the tunnels, I would not have heard it. A movement of air caressed my face, there was a faint commotion coming down the tunnel towards us. It passed between us and continued down the new tunnel. Another
followed. We lit our torches at the same time. With a wingspan of six or seven inches, the bats could only just thread their way between us, and were passing close enough for us to feel the breeze on our faces. We followed them down to where a roof fall had blocked all but the top nine inches of the tunnel. They slid through effortlessly. We could not pass without getting filthy. Besides, I wasn’t sure what type of bats they were. In a few days, something would make me rather more nervous about our time down there. We made our way back, the junctions looking alarmingly unfamiliar coming the other way. I had an unpleasantly realistic vision of getting lost while
rainwater
rose up the walls. We reached fresh air with relief.

The Lanzón chamber awaited. We passed the jaguar frieze and entered a rough doorway. Beyond a tight corner, a long narrow passage led into the gloom. Halfway along was a left turn into a defile so narrow my shoulders brushed both walls. Padlocked steel gates barred my way. Through their bars, I could see a white granite blade. It was in the centre of a cruciform chamber formed of two passageways. Like the princes and potentates, we were kept back, able only to squint at the mysteries which they would have viewed by the flickering light of rushes dipped in animal fat.

The Director of Chavín was the archaeologist Juan B. Lopez Marchena, in his thirties, with a long jaw and a flowerpot hat. He had an office on site.

‘Are you digging at the moment?’

He frowned very faintly,
‘¡Bueno!
No, I do not have permission. It is a World Heritage Site, you must have a fully planned project outlining what you hope to do. But in any case there is no money to dig.’
‘None from UNESCO?’

‘¡Bueno!
In 1998, after heavy rains penetrated the site, they awarded us $200,000. We needed money desperately to prevent further damage, but most of that money stayed in Lima.’ He patted his back pocket. ‘We had just enough to put in those new wooden props and place plastic over the roof where it was letting in water. In time we will waterproof in the traditional way, with burnt clay.’

We talked for some time, then I took a deep breath. I knew I was asking for a great privilege. ‘I have read so much about Chavín and the Lanzón, I would very much like to enter the chamber to see it properly.’ He pursed his lips. For once, he did not begin with
¡Bueno!
It had been worth a try. ‘Celestino!’ He turned to us, ‘We cannot risk damage. It is unique, quite unique. Human sweat contains acids that attack the rock. We are so lucky that it has survived intact.’ A small shy man appeared. ‘Celestino is my assistant. Please show these visitors into the Lanzón chamber for ten minutes, they must not touch anything.’

I grasped his hand and shook it vigorously. ‘Thank you! Thank you!’

Chavín was Celestino’s life work. He unlocked the gates and we slid into the most sacred space of all. The Lanzón, which means lance, in Spanish, is a slender stone blade fifteen feet high from floor to ceiling, piercing both, uniting heaven and earth, a conduit to the sacred. It is covered in a tracery of fine carving showing a single figure. Celestino had picked up his boss’s habits.
‘¡Bueno!
We have found a small chamber above the Lanzón, where a man could be concealed to provide the voice of the
oracle. You see this groove? He could pour blood into a hollow on the very top, and it would run down, so.’ In the air just above the stone, he traced the groove down to the fanged face of the deity. ‘All around us the walls are full of channels for water. In experiments, we have poured water through these channels. The chamber magnifies it, and the noise is like a huge crowd roaring. We just did it with a few hundred litres. We think they could divert river water through here. Imagine! A god who talks, roars and bleeds, it would have been terrifying!’

We would soon be back on the Royal Road, at a small town called Huari. Our next walk would be a
hundred-mile
stretch in very remote country. We decided to buy a baggage animal to carry the bulk of our luggage: hiring would be no use, we couldn’t return it. Llamas only worked well in groups, and could be hard to control, horses were expensive and less hardy. It had to be a donkey. I already had a name for the animal. I would call it Dapple, after Sancho Panza’s beloved ass in
Don Quixote
.

While we waited for the late morning bus to take us the twenty-five miles to Huari, a boy about ten approached us politely begging; he had a severe clubfoot. I found some change and held out my hand. He looked at me plaintively, and pointed at the pocket in the knee of his trousers, using the stumps of his arms. Both hands were missing.

‘Was it an accident?’

‘No, I was born like it.’ He seemed a little ashamed of
himself. I tried to talk. I seemed over-blessed in body and money. When he went away an old lady came across. ‘He’s a nice boy, that Alejandro. Did you give him money?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s all right, he’ll give it all to his mother. He always does. There are three families, they suffer in different ways in the limbs, always have. I went to school with a little girl with no foot. She married, had three children, all normal. It’s God’s will.’

The bus drove round Huari square as if reluctant to stop. We got out, which soon seemed a mistake. In a small town, the square is the only place likely to have quality buildings or public space. There were none. There is always a hostel of sorts on the main square. There wasn’t in Huari. There is always one café that appeals enough to have a coca tea to numb the tiredness, and ask advice. No. There is always a resident drunk, and he did appear promptly. He took off his cap, and bowed: ‘Señora and Señor, welcome to Huari.’ His skin was copper but his eyes were sea-blue: a flotsam European gene.

Little was painted, render was falling off walls. In early morning and at sunset, it looked picturesque, characterful and atmospheric: these were the old narrow streets that had been typical of Huaraz, before the
aluvión
. For the rest of the time, Huari was sad and impoverished: a place to buy a donkey and leave as soon as possible. Everyone was adamant we could buy a fine animal very quickly, but no one knew anyone who actually had one for sale. Near a second, smaller square, we found a small colonial hostel ablaze with flowers, then a young restaurant-owner eager to please. Elaine picked up the menu, ‘Look a whole page of local dishes, brilliant! No more chicken and
chips while we’re here! I’ve been checking under my arms for feathers.’

The menu was in Quechua. The owner sat down with us and explained, for each item, the ingredients and the cooking method, and then left us to choose. We selected and salivated. Soon he was back. ‘Your first choices are,’ he wrung his hands as he told us, ‘unfortunately not available.’ We moved down the menu. Each item we ordered was off. In the end I said, ‘What
do
you have?’

‘Vegetable soup and chicken and chips.’

Elaine let the menu drop to the table. ‘Cluck.’

I bought fuel for the stove. The shopkeeper sniffed the dregs and declared the previous batch was petrol, though I had asked for kerosene. I had been operating it with the wrong nozzle, hence the problems. We walked round the town, chatting to everyone, and telling them we wanted to buy a donkey. In the meantime, we washed our clothes and ourselves in the shower, which was warm the first morning, but never again. For days we tramped around the neighbouring countryside, and took buses to hamlets and villages, only to find the prospective vendor was out, the donkey had been sold, or had never been for sale, or was a horse. It was Elaine’s first real experience of the frequent frustrations of life in the country, and the difficulty of getting even simple things done. Here, you might think about buying an animal for six months before you told your wife or husband, then start putting the word out to friends, look around for a few months, negotiate for several weeks, then change your mind. We wanted donkey Tesco; put one in the trolley and go to checkout. By now, we would have settled for a sheep with a good work ethic. Every time we went near the square, the blue-eyed drunk
bowed and refreshed our welcome to Huari. By day four, I felt like joining him in a bottle of
caña
. We walked half a day to a village where there were four donkey dealers except on the day we went, when they were all out. We began stopping anyone travelling with a donkey, befriending them, then making a bid for the animal. One old lady looked at me as if I had offered to swap her baby for a pig.

‘Sell! I have had him for twenty-six years,’ she patted his head. ‘He stayed with me when all my children left.’ She took it as a sign of fidelity that he had not married and set up house elsewhere. I tried to divert her, ‘How do you tell the age of the animal?’

‘Look at the wear and tear on the teeth,’ she said, peeling back its lips and revealing a slobbery mouth, and long tusk-like teeth that belonged on a
megatherium
. ‘Around ten years old, they start to show wear.’ She pinched the loose neck flesh so hard the animal winced. The fold of skin fell flat right away. ‘Up to fifteen years, that goes back flat slowly. Here,’ she said, ‘put two fingers under the jaw.’