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Before heading to this deepest canyon in the world (yes, deeper than the famous Grand Canyon in the US, but admittedly less spectacular), I had an afternoon and evening to rest in Arequipa, Peru’s second largest city. Again, I was surprised by how nice and clean the city was. In fact, it is called the “White City of Peru”, given the use of strikingly white stone of volcanic origin in most buildings. But, what’s really most appealing about this town is its location in an extreme proximity of a 5,800 m high volcano. Here and pretty much anywhere else in Peru, you can be sure to ask a taxi at the bus terminal to drop you off at the Plaza de Armas, and you will be at the heart of the city. That’s one thing that the Spaniards did well, for themselves, as most of the administrative buildings are next to these plazas, and for the ordinary so they have place to gather (and often protest as it is customary here). The plaza will have palm or other ornamental trees, depending on altitude, and a major church taking one side of the square. As expected, these plazas are generally also
the place to eat or do shopping and people watching. Also in Arequipa, I ended up spending most of the time around this square.
My book said that Don Quixote called Arequipa the city of eternal spring, but times must have changed. The area in and around the town (including the Colca Canyon itself) is rather arid, and would turn into a desert should there be no irrigation. While traveling in South America I came to the realization that I really don’t get off on arid areas and mountains that much. It is rather lush mountains and hills, even if not as spectacular, that turn my crank. After all, I grew up in the mountainous town called “the Bridges by the Apple Orchard”, or in Czech “Mosty u Jablunkova”, previously known for its marshes, impenetrable woods, and wild animals (and people). While most of the marshes were eliminated there to clear the way for the famous North-South commerce trail, the area still remains pretty lush and wild. While I certainly could appreciate the serene beauty of the Bolivian Altiplano or the salt flats, it was in Patagonian mountains and on the Inca Trail where I ran out of memory
space in my camera.
I took a 1:45 am bus to the Mirador Cruz del Condor, a famous spot to watch condors fly over you, located between the two major towns of the Colca Canyon - Cabanaconde and Chivay. After a long and bumpy journey, we arrived to the Mirador at 6 am, way too early. It was windy and cold, and so I snuggled myself between two rocks with a view on the valley and the Sun, and was reading some more of my Economist. By 8 am the place was swarming with the people who took the standard (and much more expensive) 2-day tours to the valley, but it was not until 9 am that the condors finally showed up. While some people (mostly the natives) kept mumbling that the condors were little or babies, they were huge! I think the people had the wrong idea of them as in the legends here the condors take babies or even sheep and kill them. If you ever see a condor from a close up, you will know this is not possible as they have chicken-like feet, incapable of carrying anything bigger than a rabbit. Nevertheless, their size is
impressive with a wingspan of 3 meters, and their flying abilities are phenomenal. In the end, however, they are kind of ugly with a thick neck and a submerged head.
By the way, if you come here, do follow the instructions of the park rangers. I learned the hard way that the slopes are indeed slippery. Having been previously warned by the rangers not to climb close to the edge and having completely ignored that warning, I felt it was in order to show them that it was actually safe. When I was leaving the place, still full of the excitement of having the condors fly over my head, I speeded up and slid from one of the rocks covered in dust (you can hardly see it), and badly scratched my palms. The rangers must have felt fulfilled to see this, even though they did show signs of grief as they asked if I was OK. Pretending I was not bleeding, I put on my two backpacks (the large one on my back and the small one as my baby on my tummy) and left only to stop behind the corner to fix my wounds. This was to be
a sign that this was not going to be my day…
I just missed the morning bus to Cabanaconde and so I decided to hitchhike there instead. I was told it was a 3-hour walk. All trucks were full and the tourist cars just refused to take anyone on. By 10 am the traffic completely stopped and so I decided to walk it, with 80 pounds on my back (I took everything with me here, including my two Spanish grammar books, two large dictionaries, several guide books, magazines - pretty much my whole library). I was a mule. Finally, I was stopped by an indigenous lady that was waiting by the road - she must have seen my pain - and she informed me that there was a bus coming soon. Indeed, there was, but it turned out it was full! By then I knew I was screwed and would have to walk it the whole way. I felt even worse for the indigenous ladies, though. They had heavy loads as well, but without the comfy backpack cushions, everything wrapped just in a piece of cloth. Apparently, they come here to work on their fields (quite far from their
home town if you ask me) and commute back home in the afternoon with their produce. This brought back memories of my childhood. Did you know that I was a farm boy? We had a small farm afar from our house, close to where my dad’s parents lived, and similarly to these ladies here in Colca Canyon Peru, we would commute to the field in the morning, work during the day, and haul the stuff back home in the evening (that was on weekends). Most of the time our dad would be the horse pulling the trolley and me, my twin, and our mom would push. As we got older, my brother and I wanted to be the horse as it was more fun and even more importantly this was an opportunity to impress the local ladies with our manhood. Good old times. I miss it.
I finally arrived to Copacabana in mid afternoon and crashed in a hostel on Plaza de Armas. I did not rest too long and went on exploring the town. There was not much to it, and so left for the fields on the edge of the town. Comfortably seated on a large rock
that was emitting warmth it had collected from sun, I observed the farmers as they worked on their fields and later on fixed the produce on the back of their donkeys as the sun came down. I also watched the boys play football on a large but rather shabby soccer field and the local girls (some of them quite pretty I have to confess) come to watch their boys. This was one of the most peaceful and relaxing afternoons I had had here in South America. While I was just an observer here, I felt in my heart that I was with these people at that moment, and I imagined myself when 20 years ago in my home town I would be just like them, playing soccer on a meadow or collecting potatoes from our field.
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