Perú was the most variously beautiful country of my roadtrip.  Within its borders are the Andes Mountains, the Amazon River, rain forests, high plains, and vast deserts.  I would crisscross the country, by land and by air, tripling the mileage of an unthinkable shortest route through the country.

    It began with yet another English lesson, this time for a Customs agent who wanted to know the difference between "fill [up] (i.e. a bucket)" and "fill [out] (i.e. a form)."  Good question,  Good student.  Good stuff.

    A local man struck up a conversation in lowland Piura’s Plaza de Armas my first night in country.  We talked about the state of the U.S., Peru, the losses and slow recovery from rains and subsequent flooding earlier that year.

    I made my way to Chachapoyas – 1 ½ miles high – from where I took a bus to a gondola to the nearby Inca village of Kuélap and another bus to the trailhead to the Gocta Waterfall.

    Then it was back down to the ocean for a few nights at Huanchaco.  Pizza had been in my head for days, and I found a place a few blocks away that exceeded expectations.  Gustavo invited me back for the Peru vs New Zealand World Cup qualifier late Friday night.

    The next morning, Amelia informed me that she and Victor (my camping hosts) were headed to Lima that night.  She said the place was mine, and to charge 15 soles (USD $4.60) for campers or 30 soles for a room.

    The next day, I caught up on my writing and washed and hung clothes between two balconies.  Amelia didn’t leave any food or instructions for the cat hanging around, so I shared some of my pasta with her.

    I returned to the pizza place to watch the World Cup qualifier.  They couldn’t get the TV to work in the restaurant, so we retreated to the living quarters inside, where eight of us crowded into a small bedroom for the 90-minute scoreless match.  This meant New Zealand would be traveling to Lima for the rubber match on Wednesday.  It would be a big one.  Perú hadn’t qualified for the World Cup for 35 years.

    I headed back inland and made it as far as an overlander spot outside of Caraz, around 5pm, then returned in the dark to town for some groceries. The guy who ran the place told me about Chacas, a 3-5-hour detour off the road to Huaráz.

    I headed out early the next morning and was greeted by spectacular, snowcapped mountains.  The road began climbing just east of Carhuaz, followed by a serpentine highway and hairpin turns for miles.  I pulled over 5-10 times on the way up, each time thinking that the view couldn’t get better, only to gratefully be proven wrong each time.

    Near the top was Punta Olímpica (Olympic Point), marking a mile long tunnel, the highest in the world at 4,735 m (15,535 ft.).  Its location was scouted and decided by young Peruvians, shortly after – and named in honor of – their country’s 4-2 soccer victory over Austria in the 1936 Olympics in Berlin.

    The light at the of the tunnel’s end grew larger and brighter, and I was soon out of the mountain, headed down the other side for a delicious descent into a lush valley. I parked across from the Plaza de Armas in Chacas, rested in an open field, wandered a bit around the small, quiet town.  After a bit of lunch, I was glad to retrace my route and continue onto Huaráz, where I spent a few days wandering, writing, and waiting for the match.

    A few business type men were working on a bottle in front of the TV in the lobby, watching the pre-match show. Shortly after we started chatting, the guys invited me to join them for the match.  Soon thereafter, I was piling into a cab with four strangers.  It turned out the hotel owner was the president of the Huaráz Chamber of Commerce and that the viewing party was in their office on the second floor, adjacent the main square of town. I had wandered by there five hours earlier, as people were already starting to gather to watch the match on the big screen outdoors.

    There were a few rows of tables and chairs and a modest offering of food and beverages.  We claimed our spots in the front row, and I spent the next two hours watching history.  I watched players mouth their national anthem on the screen and heard the people in the plaza sing.  

    28 minutes of near misses, gasps, and groans later, Christian Cueva passed to the center of the box, where Jefferson Farfán right footed the ball into the top left corner of the net.  There was mayhem in and outside the room.

    Perú led 1-0 at the half, but no one in the room was in celebration mode.

    20 minutes into the second half, just after a corner kick, Christian Ramos right footed the ball high into the center of the net.

    It wasn’t until about the final 30 seconds of the match that a confident rumble began to fill the room.  And soon enough, Perú had indeed qualified for their first World Cup in 35 years.  When the final whistle blew, the room and Perú entire shook.  I leaped to my feet and cheered with my new friends, then hurried outside, into a sea of painted faces smiling, people shouting, cheering, arms raised and around each other. Peruvian flags waved, car horns honked, fireworks exploded. It was a country mad with joy.

    After a bit, the fellas decided to go for a drink and a smoke down the block.  We cheered our way to a corner liquor store, where they ordered rum and cokes. A drunken young man stumbled up to me and screamed "LET'S GO DANCE!" He had the perfect answer as I questioned where: "IT DOESN'T MATTER!"

    The next day was a national holiday.