It was a real shame to leave the luxury of the Kenti Cafe and Athelita’s hospitality, but it was time to move on. We had arranged with Carlos to meet him at the bottom of the road leading up the mountainside to Chachapoyas, and to get there on time we had to leave at 7.00am. This being Peru of course our taxi was 30 mins late, nevertheless the journey was beautifully scenic and the weather stunning.


Carlos had suggested we visit San Geronimo, a small village outside Pedro Ruiz at the north of the Utcubamba Valley . Here he explained, in 2013, some Peruvian Archeologists had found some new sarcophagi on a small ledge overlooking the valley on one of the towering mountains. This had been discovered by a drone and had been widely covered in the Peruvian press, but as yet the discovery was not well known outside Peru. When he elaborated further I became more and more intrigued. Carlos added that these sarcophagi were in a better condition than those at Karajia (which I had visited in 2009) and the area was now ready to accept travellers. Despite this few foreigners went as the route there was tricky and the site was difficult to access.


I double checked with Adriana Von Hagen who had not yet been, but was able to confirm that this was a startling discovery. I also quickly chatted to Dad, as I was not sure he would be able to make it up the whole way to the sarcophagi, and he seemed keen despite this - so I arranged it.


We met Carlos at the agreed rendezvous, albeit later than planned and headed off up the Utcubamba Valley . Before Pedro Ruiz we crossed the Utcubamba River and started the slow climb up to San Geronimo on “some dreadful” (remarked Dad) dirt roads. After almost 90 minutes we arrived in the small village which was clinging to the sides of one of the tall mountains, looking down at the Utcubamba Valley. We parked in front of the tourist office, a yellow mud building with a poster on the wall, some rubber boots in the corner and a vast number of chickens running around.


Whilst Carlos had arranged everything beforehand including horses, there did seem to be no rush in producing them and our departure was delayed for a further hour as the man in charge went off to find them. Eventually we did set off, this time both Dad and I on horseback (as now we were pressed for time), with Carlos and the two local guides.


The track just went straight up the mountainside over a dried mud track and beside lush green vegetable fields . Crops like maize, potatoes and root vegetables were being grown up here and some were being ploughed in the old fashioned way as we passed. “I cannot believe people are actually farming up here,” muttered my father.


The further up we went the more the clouds came in and the blue skies and the sun started to disappear. “It will rain soon” commented Carlos and I glanced down at the pathway which I imagined would become a mud river with the smallest rain drops. Luckily we soon reached a plateau in amongst the fields and we rode over to a small incline in the shadow of a large mountain. It was here where we were due to leave the horses and finish the journey on foot and it was also here that the rain started. “It should not rain in September,” said Carlos “this is meant to be the dry season.”


With our water proofs on, we trekked over toward the foot of the pathway leading up the side of the mountain, when Carlos drew our attention to a small ledge some two thirds of the way up. Here through my zoom lens we could just make out the sarcophagi, in a line underneath some over hanging plant roots. They looked terrific with what appeared to be humanlike faces and expressions. I could not wait to see it. Dad was also keen on getting closer, but I was not sure how much closer he could get as the rain was turning the path into a mud bath and I understood from Carlos that the track would get steep and treacherous.


We walked on further to a little bridge over a picturesque stream and it was here that Dad felt he could not go on, for the path took right turn directly upwards. So it was here I left him with his guide and suggested he walked back to the area where we had spotted the sarcophagi and watched us through his lens.


As it turned out the pathway got very steep and treacherous on the slippery mud. It snaked its way up the mountain and I followed the two others, now feeling ever more conscious of the altitude. It was about now that Carlos started to spot fragments of Chacha pottery that were scattered all over the path. These fragments became more and more numerous the nearer we got to the site.


Eventually we arrived underneath the mountain overhang. Here the pathway became dry and we emerged onto a wide ledge filled with the ruins of a dozen or so round constructions. These were the start of the Chacha site and not too dissimilar to what I recall seeing at the Lagunas del Condors, except there were no red pictographs above them painted on the rocks and these constructions were circular. They had also been severely damaged. As we cautiously stepped over these ruins, suddenly we heard some cries from down below. It was the other guide with Dad and a long protracted conversation (in Spanish) echoed over the valley between him and Carlos. It soon became apparent that my father had fallen over or had damaged himself again. Carlos said it did not sound too serious but he would return to the view point and see what was happening. He immediately left.


I and the other guide then started crawling along the narrowest of ledges, now only a couple of feet below the overhang and next to a knee wobbling drop of hundreds, if not thousands of feet. Not being good with heights this soon got my heart racing but I just focused on ploughing on. Sometimes the rain would tumble down a gap in the overhang and soak the mud on the ledge underneath me, making it very slippery. Finally I got to the end and was confronted by what resembled a cave entrance on the left with several human skulls and a rickety platform on the right built from tree branches out over the ledge that lead up to an equally unstable looking viewing platform. The guide pointed his finger up there and sat down. Obviously he was not going to join me.


Climbing this ‘homemade’ ladder (made with very thin branches) was not good for my constitution, but having climbed up to this point there was no way I was not going to view the sarcophagi. The branches groaned and moved under my weight and when I go up to the tree house, the ones on the floor squeaked suspiciously. Each branch whether on the floor of the platform or the ladder provided an excellent view of the cavernous sheer drop below. However all of this paled into insignificance when I saw the view opposite the platform. For there in front of me where the fourteen sarcophagi in a line amongst a tangle of thick grey dried plant roots. Some were large representations of adults with creepy life like faces, others (especially one) were like children. Some of their eyes seemed to watch me. Four of them had obviously been broken into and their mummies removed. Carlos had mentioned before that one sarcophagi was supposed to still house a mummy, but on seeing them, I doubted it. The Chachas certainly pick their places, for the view was amazing as the fourteen gazed out over the green valley above this sheer rock face with Pedro Ruiz just a dot in the distance.


It was when I was looking at them that I heard another yell from the valley below and although my understanding of Spanish is poor at best, I realised that Carlos had arrived to find my father in a worse state than we had guessed. It was now I thought we should leave, even though the guide did motion up towards an even more treacherous ledge that appeared to offer a closer view. I refused and back we scrambled.


It took a while to slip and slide down the pathway as by now the rain had ensured the mud was deep. We raced over the bridge to where the horses had been left and there was no sign of Dad, his guide or Carlos. I assumed Carlos had taken Dad back down to San Geronimo. Sure enough, after a treacherous climb down the muddy path, when we entered the village and there he was at the village clinic having his latest wound dressed and stitched. It appeared that he and his guide decided to cut across a field where the maize had been harvested. During the crossing one dry stalk had pierced my father’s leg and when he puled out the twig his blood had just spurted out like a pressure hose “at least one metre towards my guide.”  This (obviously) panicked the guide, who must have thought the worst hence his frenzied yelling. When Carlos arrived, my father (lying down with his leg in the air) was trying to calm the other guide and Carlos immediately decided to take him to the clinic on seeing the blood. As Dad hobbled out of this clinic (number three in five days) the nurse called out to Carlos, “just museums from now on!”


By now the rain was pouring down and the mist was sweeping over San Geronimo. Carlos put my father back into the car and we headed off to Pedro Ruiz, where we were dropped and we enlisted a nice taxi driver Paul, to take us to Cuispes, a little town on the opposite mountain to San Geronimo. We said goodbye to Carlos who had done an excellent job over the previous four days. Up at Cuispes, we checked into the little guesthouse, La Posada de Cuispes on the main square. Dad now seemed better and had regained his sense of humour so we left through the rain to eat at the restaurant opposite our guesthouse. This was quite a rural experience as this town is well off the tourist track and La Posada was its first guesthouse. However the restaurant owners were very friendly and we ate well. Meanwhile the town seemed to be preparing for the national regional elections, by having a pop music concert and music started blaring out at full volume whilst we were eating. Actually it turned out this was not a pop concert but a party political advert, and it went on until 10.30pm. All the locals were complaining and the enormous banks of speakers lined up at the top of the square meant it was impossibly loud in my room, even with my ear plugs.