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We stood on the edge of the cliff and gazed down to where we would spend the night.
The tiny village was but a mere speck against the side of the deepest canyon in the world (twice as deep as the Grand Canyon) and it seemed like an insurmountable task.
The sun beat down on us and the dry dust got in our lungs as we slipped and stumbled our way along the narrow, rocky path. It was difficult to take in the spectacular view whilst simultaneously trying to avoid the cacti lined cliff edges.
Only a handful of families remained in the two tiny villages and our guide predicted that in a few years it was likely that they would be totally abandoned as people moved to nearby towns. It was a tough existence working the old terraces growing potatoes, maize, quinoa and wheat. Four times a week they would make the arduous journey to the top of the canyon to trade their goods in town. Leaving at 3am and not returning until 11pm, they would cover the distance in a third of the time it takes the average tourist just to descend.
Very few of
the houses had electricity and it was sobering to learn that for the price of an Ipod one house could be connected to power. We also discovered that the Catholic church had commissioned an enormous church and plaza in the village. However the priest only visits once a year and for the remaining 364 days of the year it remains closed to the villagers despite the fact that they are in desperate need of a building to house a school and hospital.
At the bottom of the canyon is a large river that in the past had supplied the villages with fresh water. In recent years however it had been polluted by a nearby copper mine and was one of the reasons meny people were being forced to leave their homes.
It was almost dusk as we crossed the gushing water and to my dismay I learned that just getting to the bottom wasn't enough, we then had to climb another hour up to the village. With the light quickly fading we were furious at the tour company who had assured me we would not be doing any hiking in the dark. But hey, its Peru and they
will tell you pigs fly if it means you will sign on the dotted line.
And so began the arduous task of picking my way along the uneven ground, Micala doing a fabulous job of keeping me on the narrow path with the help of others in the group who were clearing rocks, carrying my backpack and helping me across waterfalls. They confided to me later that they all closed their eyes for a while to try and see what it was like but opened them swiftly in terror only moments later. Fortunately there were plenty of cold beers at the village and we enjoyed a celebratroy drink or three to get over the ordeal.
After spending the night by candlelight in thatched rooms, we awoke to a spectacular view of the canyon and freshly made pancakes. All was forgiven and it was yet another story to tell someone elses kids. After several hours walking through the tiny villages, learning about the many medicinal and hallucinogenic plants, eating cactus fruit and feeling sorry for the guinea pigs that were going to be somebody´s lunch, we basked in the sun and enjoyed a swim in an oasis.
From
the bottom, the trek up the canyon looked to be even more daunting than the way down. The path zigged and zagged over 1000 metres and after a couple of beers I still wasn´t convinced I could do it.
So we employed the help of a local guy and his mules. Those who do bad deeds in this life must come back as a mule because surely there couldn't be any tougher job. The product of a love affair between a donkey and a horse, mules posess incredible strength and are used to carry heavy loads and lazy tourists.
As the more ambitious of our group set off on foot to tackle the steep incline, we jumped aboard our trusty steeds and set a cracking pace up the mountain.
It was absolutely terrifying. The narrow path provided a less than adequate turning circle for the mules and the fact that the owner was whipping mine meant that he was intent on getting past the mule in front, oblivious to the fact that we were millimeteres from the edge, atop loose stones and close to iminent death.
Whilst not afraid of heights, looking down at the sheer
drop was enough to force a number of swear words from my mouth to the amusement of the mule driver who continued to whip me and the mule more emphatically as he laughed.
Guilt started to set in as we lurched towards the top of the canyon, the mules sweating and faltering on the steeper parts and our walking amigos dragging their tired feet.
Once they reached flat ground the race resumed and we bounced along at an uncooridnated trot that nearly ruptured my spleen. It was a hysterically funny sight to behold. It took me at least an hour to get my legs to function again and remove the tree branches and sticks from my hair.
If I get reincarnated as an animal, please don´t let it be a mule or a guinea pig.
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