An Off-Day With A Photographer

by H. L. Stembridge

I never fail to marvel at the way so many people, myself included, cling blindly to ideas which are long since outmoded. A typical example is the perennial platitude about the advantages of climbing mountains with a photographer; the theme being that, while he stops to photograph, you have a few minutes in which to recover your breath.

This originated of course several decades ago in the era when cameras were cumbersome and heavy and the business of setting up the tripod, getting under the black cloth and inserting the plate took time. Nowadays when a big proportion of ‘tigers’ have little cameras slung round their necks along with a welter of slings, snap links, pegs and hammers, the fact that your climbing companion wants to take a photograph, instead of being an occasion to collect your puff, is more likely to lead to a peremptory demand that you scramble quickly up some prominent pinnacle and pose precariously while he presses the button. He then sets off before you have time to get down and by the time you have caught up with him you are puffing worse than ever. In any case I should have known that Greg^[1] is no ordinary photographer. Who but he could enjoy toiling with an enormous variety of cameras and lenses through the sweltering humidity of tropical jungle in order to stand for hours up to his knees in evil smelling swamp, with insects perforating all exposed parts of his anatomy, simply to photograph two or three dragonflies?

Had I realised what it involved I would have shown more caution when he suggested going to photograph the Puya Raymondii. Apparently this rare plant with its base of spiny leaves and its giant flower spike rising to over 30 feet, reputedly the tallest flowering plant in the world, grows only in three remote places in the Cordillera Negre, the Black Mountains of Northern Peru, and is in danger of becoming extinct.

We were “relaxing” in the Santa Valley after three strenuous weeks in the Cordillera Blanca and Greg had got the arrangements all cut and dried. With our friend Cesar Morales we would catch a truck that climbed the Negre twice a week, drop off in the area where the plants were known to grow, take the photographs and join the truck on its return journey later in the day. Fair enough, but not quite so simple as it sounds.

The truck was due to start at 3.30 a.m. from an Indian town a mile or two distant from our sleeping place and we set our alarm for two o’clock. Although it was late June the ground was frozen hard at our height of over 10,000 feet and we stumbled noisily through the darkness down the rough track, accompanied by the barking of every dog in the neighbourhood. The little town was in darkness except for a glimmer above the church porch which disclosed the shapeless bundles of sleeping Indians huddled in their ponchos on the stone cold slabs.

We shivered as we searched for our truck among the deserted streets. We knew exactly what to look for, they are all alike, the main means of transport of the common folk of the Andes, resembling nothing so much as our English sheep or cattle trucks. They have the same high sides but whereas the English vehicles have two or three storeys to prevent the layers of sheep from pressing on to each other, the Peruvian counterparts have no such refinement—people, cattle, poultry and goods are piled in with careless abandon and left to find their own level.

By 3.0 a.m. our truck seemed already crammed to capacity with Indians and their belongings. We fought our way in over the back and after much pushing and insinuating which the muffled occupants bore in stoic silence, we managed to put our feet on the floor of the truck. But not for long. More and more people came scrambling in over the sides, sacks of potatoes and grain were pushed on to our precious bit of floor space and, just as it seemed the very sides would burst, we jolted off, bumping with flattened springs over the cobbles, past the faceless houses towards the mountains that surrounded us.

I balanced uneasily on a sack of potatoes, my feet in an Indian’s lap, for there was nowhere else to put them. My knees were stiff with cold. No one spoke as, for what seemed eternity, our truck toiled upwards through the darkness, rounding hairpin after hairpin of the rough dirt road. First light revealed a mass of humanity which, by constant jolting, had shaken down like peas in a jar.

Most of the Indians were returning to their remote villages in the high Cordillera. To them we were Gringos and they scrutinised us with that incredulous curiosity which our appearance undeniably invited. What was our purpose in travelling on this truck? We told them. They couldn’t believe it, nor could we blame them, but it was some time before they accepted us as harmless, if queer. With the naivety of country folk they fingered our anoraks and down jackets. How much did our boots cost? Impossible! How much better and cheaper were their bare feet or sandals of old motor tyres! They joked with each other in Quecha, doubtless at our expense, but it was good to see their kindly faces light up. Women suckled their babies as though this cramming and freezing and jolting was a natural state of affairs, as to them no doubt it was.

As the sun rose we exchanged our dirt road for a track that can only be described as atrocious. Never have I seen its like. Progress was down to a snail’s pace. For hour after hour our driver tugged the wheel this way and that to avoid boulders and potholes or to ease his way across the gullies that seamed the track. Like storm-tossed mariners we clung desperately to the nearest graspable object, fearful of being thrown overboard into an abyss. Our minds numb with the jolting we lost the sense of time, so when at last the truck, after a particularly violent bout, lurched to a halt in the middle of nowhere, we could hardly believe it and it needed a mental effort to make ourselves climb over the side on to the frozen puna.

A bitter wind blew across the tawny featureless waste, but we had no time to stand and shiver. We had exactly an hour and a quarter to cover the two miles to where the plants grew and the two miles back to pick up the truck on its return. If you have never tried it I can assure you it is hard work walking fast through a maze of tussocks and boulders at over 15,000 ft. A herd of cattle grazed ahead of us; casually Cesar remarked “They breed fighting bulls here.” and suggested a detour. With remarkable unanimity we changed course; the idea of being chased uphill over rough ground by a fighting bull while gasping for breath at 15,000 plus seemed more like a nightmare than an imminent probability.

Clear of the bulls, other obstacles in the form of rocks or depressions called for more detours so that when at length we saw the Puya Raymondii, still some distance away, a good half of our time had expired. There were almost a hundred plants but only two bore the great flower spikes that we wanted to photograph. Although these two were not more than half a mile away, between us and them yawned a steep-sided valley several hundred feet deep.

No earthly power could have stopped Greg from crossing this valley. The fact that we should miss the truck and wait three days for the next was immaterial, the photographs were all that mattered. Cesar and I compromised. We would photograph the flowerless plants on our side of the valley, then hurry back and hold up the truck for Greg. Threequarters of an hour later when, panting hard, we reached the track, Greg was hot on our heels.

But not so the truck. For an hour we waited and when at last it hove into sight the reason for the delay was not far to seek. If we considered it grossly overloaded on the outward journey, there were no words to describe its present state. It was hell with the lid off! Over forty men and women, all with bundles or babies, a herd of pigs, a flock of sheep, turkeys and squawking hens plus giant bales of produce were jammed like asparagus in a bundle.

I was lucky enough to get into the driver’s cab, already occupied by several people. Greg and Cesar balanced precariously on the backs of pigs with nowhere to put their feet, nor had the pigs room to lie down. The truck started with some reluctance, bumping and rolling as before but in a mile or so it stopped. With horror we saw another herd of pigs and a mountain of produce waiting to be loaded. Impossible? Not a bit of it! All were pushed on, the pigs squealing blue murder. Even our gallant engine, a Ford 600, jibbed at this latest outrage and would only consent to go uphill if the twenty-seven men aboard were prised out and made to walk.

The only person unruffled was the driver who remained as merry as a lark, joking with all and sundry, obviously regarding the whole business as a perfectly normal run. Yet the physical effort required to heave the heavy wheel for thirteen hours on end and the responsibility of delivering his human cargo unscathed from the perils of this agonising, not to say dangerous, track would have cowed any ordinary man. Small wonder that he was universally addressed as “Maestro”. Occasionally we got out of first gear, but never beyond second and we did pretty well to average 7 miles in the hour, so I was not surprised when the “Maestro” told me the truck consumed a gallon of petrol every two miles.

I would like to have talked more to this remarkable man but the fumes and the heat of the cab on top of the swaying and jolting of the vehicle completely turned me over and I only survived by hanging out of the window. We endured it for six long hours more, at the end of which our destination was still miles away and thousands of feet below us. But at this stage we abandoned ship—battered and bent and nearly broken. Greg at least was happy—he had his photograph.

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