While in Chachapoyas, we took a couple of day trips with a budget group tour agency. Chachapoyas, at least in May 2018, was perfect for visiting because the tourism industry was strong enough to provide us with an exciting litany of options but the hordes of tourists that make planning a trip to Cuzco and Machu Picchu difficult weren't around. One could literally come up with his itinerary the night before a trek, whether with a tour agency or via public transportation. The iPeru office in the central plaza was particularly helpful in helping us decide what to do. And so on our third day, we made a day trip to the waterfall of Gocta, one of the tallest waterfalls in the world. In fact, depending on who you ask, Gocta is anywhere from the third to the fifteenth-tallest waterfall in the world. The official height of a cataract depends on which measurement technique is used; someone can count each different section as an individual waterfall or use their collective heights together. Gocta is composed of two cataracts, one directly below the other, which explains the variance in superlatives for the site. This was the one place I did not want to miss while in Chachapoyas. There are some experiences that can't be replicated by anything else. One is the thrill of hiking and sweating towards the ever-growing sound of falling water, the moisture in the air steadily increasing, then finally being able to soak yourself in the glory of the falls and your own sense of accomplishment, taking in the energy of the stream and relaxing in the knowledge that you made it. Another is getting buzzed, totally unplanned, with great company and while making new friends. Our Gocta trip was special, somehow coming through on both counts. The one hour ride to the town of Cocachimba, one of two towns from which to hike to Gocta, took us downhill on thin, curving two-laned roads hugging the hills. My headache from the altitude had gotten worse since visiting Kuelap the day before, but was melting away as I peered out the window and the vegetation steadily became more lush and tropical. The department of Amazonas in Peru, like many others, can take you though multiple ecosystems in a mind-numbingly short amount of time. This also meant we were heading into prime mosquito territory. Looking around the bus, we recognized some tourists who had accompanied our tour to Kuelap, including an older Peruvian-Canadian couple who wore easy-to-spot, wide-brimmed hats. The husband was particularly identifiable, if not by his appearance than by the fact that he brought up to the group, on at least four separate occasions, that he had visited Machu Picchu and Cuzco eight times, during our time in Kuelap. Cocachimba is idyllic. A small town taking advantage of its location with a view of the falls from 5 kilometers out, it has an efficient system for tourism and warm, inviting weather and people. The climate reminded me of Janina's hometown of Oxapampa. There is only one path to Gocta from Cocachimba, and the tourism office is near its entrance, allowing the the town to essentially funnel in tourists and their cash, although only 100 people are allowed on the trail per day. At the office we paid our entry fee and some of us put on insect repellent. I had brought some but didn't end up needing it. Standing next to me was Mrs. Machu-Picchu-eight-times, already covered head-to-toe in green pants and long sleeves along with her giant hat, who fervently fired a bottle's worth of repellent onto herself and into the air, enough to cover herself, me, and at least an entire firetruck. She and Mr. Eight-Times then climbed on their horses and started the trail. We elected to walk. Although we started the tour with a guide and a busload of people, the trail did not seem crowded, as different groups went at their own paces and the "guide" simply stayed behind, making sure not to lose anybody. The dirt trail to the falls was mostly downhill, and the dark path was soft from the humidity and covered in tropical shade. Immediately we came across the several rustic wooden bodegas to buy snacks and shared a pitcher of freshly squeezed orange juice from a local woman whose home was located on the trail. There were also spots to buy ice cream and papa rellena, a typical dish composed of mashed and fried potatoes with beef and spices as filling. Despite being only roughly ten minutes into the trek, a pattern in our group was already developing. As I walked, Janina and Yariri steadily fell behind. At one point I thought the girls were struggling since they were wearing basic sneakers, until I remembered they successfully passed by the hikers that wore hundreds of dollars' worth of gear on Machu Picchu Mountain, all while sporting regular t-shirts and tennis shoes. Janina and Yariri would be a nightmare for the marketing departments at REI, Patagonia, and the like. They were busy enjoying each other's company, stopping every few minutes for selfies, and most importantly, catching up on family gossip. After all, when you have nearly fifty cousins, the gossip takes a while to get through. I didn't feel patient enough to listen to gossip about people I didn't know (or barely knew), and stayed a bit ahead of the girls while making our way towards the cataract. Throughout the walk there were several spots to view Gocta, which was slowly increasing in size and in sound. The moisture in the air was increasing noticeably as we approached the falls, and there was a constant smell reminiscent of wet leaves after a refreshing rain. At about two and a half hours into the hike this changed and the trail became parching when it stopped cutting through the forest. Now it hugged a hillside, the trail became dry and dusty, and the shade lifted. To our left was a rare wooden guardrail, protecting us from the precipice leading about three hundred feet down to the river. But after we walked around the bend, we could spot the mist spraying from the pool of water at the bottom of the falls, about half a kilometer further down the path. Upon laying eyes on this sight, our pace picked up in anticipation. Janina and I had visited waterfalls countless times in Matucana, where we first met and started dating. But this was a different beast. Unlike the waterfalls in Matucana, we could barely approach, let alone get under, this one. Thundering Gocta generated a wind that could make someone lose his balance, and the noise level made it impossible to communicate unless we resorted to yelling. The three of us dried off our glasses, in vain, as the water and mist seemed to come from all directions. Although we weren't under the waterfall, we were certainly in Gocta. Soon enough we were dripping wet from head to toe by the mere splash from the falls. Regardless, I carefully stepped over the slick rocks down to the pool under Gocta to try to take a dip in the water. Within fifty feet, my boots were slipping, I could barely see through the mist, and was questioning the safety of this excursion. More importantly, the water at Gocta comes from the frigid Andes. Each step forward made me think it wasn't worth taking this risk if the end result would be to freeze alone in the water. A small group of young men did end up taking a dip, but hadn't planned ahead and took off everything but their underwear. It wouldn't matter, since their clothes would get just as wet next to the falls as inside the pool. I remained fine observing from my spot. Realizing this was as close as I would get, I stopped and took a moment to appreciate Gocta. The unending roar, combined with what I could still see of the continuous stream of water through my lenses, was hypnotizing, but also energizing. A smile came across my face almost immediately. I felt the weariness from the morning wash away, replaced by a feeling of excitement. A wave of energy seemed to emanate from the falls and permeate the surroundings. Soon enough Janina and Yariri worked up the courage and joined. There was a feeling that nowhere else on the planet would beat where we were at that moment. We took photos, none of which came out becuase of the mist. The way back to Cocachimba was more difficult, not only because it was uphilll but since the sun had started to shine more brightly on the trail. In a short matter of time all of our clothes were dry from the sun. Our water bottles were running low too. We were going up, step by step, with Janina and Yariri continuing the latest gossip in their circles of family and friends, when one of us spotted a sign for a store about halfway between the falls and Cocachimba. We took the detour, stepping into a narrower dirt path and brushing aside the large green leaves leaning in, and ending up in the middle of a small complex of several wooden shacks. A señora stepped out of one of them and we asked to buy water and to use the bathroom. Bathrooms she had, she explained, but no water. Only huarapo, a sugar cane liquor. Obviously not the same, but we bought and split a pitcher of the cool sugary drink as we rested and listened to the señora. She invited us inside a wooden building with thatched roof and dirt floor, where we took advantage of the cooler temperature. Roosters waddled in an out of the room as we talked for about half an hour, the señora telling us of her family and Cocachimba before Gocta became a destination. Apparently her home was always located in the side of the trail towards Gocta, but only recently have they been able to take in extra funds by catering to visitors. Initially she only addressed Janina and Yariri, with me awkwardly at the table but outside of the conversation, but she started talking to me after Janina explained that I spoke Spanish too. This is a phenomena that happens often in rural Peru; I will say something in Spanish, then the person will answer in Spanish but continue to assume I don't speak the language. In fact, they will even assume this as I vainly attempt to explain that I speak the language, until Janina plays the role of authority on the matter and literally tells them the same thing. Why this happens is a mystery to me, but it's a good bet that this woman had talked to plenty of gringos who knew "donde esta el bano" (where is the bathroom) or "cuanto esta cerveza?" (how much is beer?) and nothing else. To be fair, that was pretty much my whole interaction with her until we all sat down in her home. The señora must have liked us, because before we left she gave us free shots of macerados, or fruit macerated with pisco. It was just what three dehydrated hikers alone on a trail needed. After that, the rest of the hike went by a lot faster. With the mix of exercise and liquor, I soon found myself getting hungry, and so started walking a bit with purpose and more hurriedly to town. Janina and Yariri stayed at their pace. I figured they were fine, safe together, and if anything happened to me, they'd find me on the path anyway. Despite the faster pace, I arrived around 3 PM to Cocachimba. I snagged a papa rellena from a stand for 1 sol and walked inside the restaurant that was included in the tour. Every set lunch had soup and a main dish, plus fresh juice and dessert. As I was finishing my soup, Janina and Yariri entered, smiling and talking still. They sat next to me, oogling what remained in my bowl before I played defense and explained theirs were coming out soon. There were menus to order extra food as well, but nobody wanted to pay more. Still, curiosity got the best of me, and I looked through the menus to see what the local dishes were. Each menu had a photo of Gocta on the front, and underneath was a statement proclaiming Cocachimba as home to the tallest cataract in the world. Case solved? Lunch was the last time we'd see the Eight Times Machu Picchu couple, who decided to stay at a hotel in Cocachimba that had a pool and view of Gocta. Of the two, I preferred the husband over the wife, despite his humble bragging. Mrs. Eight Times seemed nice, but instead of communicating verbally, chose to awkwardly stare at you with widened, unblinking eyes. It gave the aura of an owl peering through your soul. I swear I saw her lick her lips while staring at the children during lunch once. Perhaps, being from Canada, she was a native French speaker not comfortable with her English or Spanish skills and was searching for a way to communicate... any way... or maybe she was just really socially awkward. Either way, I would not miss the staring. "Chuchuhuasi" ("choo-choo wah-see"). In three years of living in Peru and several trips back, I had never heard of this drink. Yet after finishing my meal, here I was still slightly buzzed from our water search excursion, with a much older Peruvian-Japanese gentlemen holding a shot glass, filled to the brim and against my forehead, repeating the name of the drink to me. "Chuchuhuasi!" This time was more enthusiastic and he showed a toothy smile, excited to share this drink with a foreigner. A few drops of liquid fell from the glass as he moved his hand for emphasis. In Peru, it's considered rude to turn someone down if they invite you a drink. You can turn down the following drinks, but the first one is pretty impossible to deny, especially among men. The culture is also much more respective of elders than American society. So I took the shot glass, gave a hearty "salud!" with the gentleman, and drank chuchuhuasi for the first (and so far, only) time. I will never forget the taste, a strangely familiar herbal flavor preceding a torrent of pure bitterness, which was immediately followed by the realization that this is practically moonshine. After this realization, I looked up and thanked the old man who offered me the drink. I'm not sure what face I was making but the man laughed and made a point to tell Janina that chuchuhuasi is also an aphrodisiac, which he must have known was news to us, and which he apparently found hilarious. After the chuchuhuasi, we were herded up like sheep back into the van for Chachapoyas. Group tours are always a weird dynamic; you're free for a bit to explore, but in the end can feel like a walking ATM to be moved from one spot to the next, each one a new place to hand out your money. You also never know who you'll be paired with, and tourism in exotic places attracts the most exclusive personalities. As I peered out the window of the van, the small paradise of Cocachimba faded away, chuchuhuasi spun in my head, and I fell asleep to the sounds of tires rumbling over the dirt road towards the highway. Our trip to Gocta had exceeded all our expectations.
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AuthorBrad Goodman Archives
January 2019
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