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Published: September 27th 2009
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The Colca Valley
The view from the top. At the bottom of the world´s second deepest canyon (the first being the neighboring Cotahuasi Canyon) breakfast is nothing more than stale bread and Nescafe. The fact that I´m being served breakfast at all is a bit of an improbability. A few hearty families, spending the better part of a decade, chased the tourist dollar nearly a mile below the canyon´s rim and the agricultural outpost of Cabañaconde. Beyond the stale bread and instant coffee is a range of bamboo shelters, somewhat natural swimming pools, and warm beer. The hike down was nothing short of ridiculous-- one steep switchback after another-- until knees offer their protest.
Taking a Spanish class for a week in Arequipa, one would have to be blind to remain unaware of the trekking possibilities in the Colca Canyon. Everywhere you turn vendors advertise guided tours of the canyon. For the right price (vendor decided), you can wake before dawn and follow a guide as you are whisped on a tight schedule from one place to another. Requirements are limited: a pair of good legs (although donkeys are optional), and an alarm clock.
In Peru we have re-learned the power of persuasiveness. It runs high in
the mind of the local. At any point there is a strong belief you can be convinced to eat, buy something you don´t need, or go to a place you never dreamt.
We tell ourselves thanks, but no thanks. We´ll hike on our own schedule.
Under an early morning sky, we begin our ascent to the village of Fure at the base of the spectacular Huarasi waterfall. It is at this time we learn the true nature of Peruvian persistence. A four-legged, floppy-eared, bright-eyed canine chases our heels and takes the lead. He is not a stranger. The previous day we made his acquaintance and aptly named him Perrito; for his minute stature, and for the fact that, well, he´s a dog. We´re unsure of his level of language comrehension, and subsequently our attempts at communication in several languages fall upon ignorant ears. He doesn´t understand the word no. And unlike a human being, we can´t simply walk away.
Unexpectedly, we have our guide.
And one that demands pay. The scraps from our tuna cans, a few crackers, and precious drops of water will suffice.
Immediately, his energy is infuriating. As we sweat on the
rugged ascent, he runs ahead, chases birds, and circles back around with a look that couldn´t make us feel any lazier.
After kicking him over the cliff´s edge, I feel a hunger pang and decide it´s time for a snack. Whoa, did I just write that? ...I would never dream of commiting such a horrible act of violence. In fact, there was a particular time where our Perrito (who remained with us for three days) couldn´t navigate a large boulder in the path. And who do you think made sure he wasn´t abandoned? That´s right... Elaine.
The trail transitions high up on the canyon wall between the aforementioned ascents, narrow ledges, and deep drops. It is at the crest of one of these ledges when my brain and legs cease communication. Firing synapses tell my feet to lift and place, but my legs seem more interested in wobbling uncontrollably. The fear is somewhat misplaced-- though narrow, the trail is plenty wide to pass, but once the thought of a potential slip and a 1,000 foot drop to a watery grave enters your mind-- those synapses are harder to register. So I develop a mantra; one step, one step,
One shelter
At the base of first day´s trail. one step. Rudimentary yes, but effective nonetheless.
The landscape is high desert, and composed of a variety of flora and fauna, but perhaps most impressive is the local ecology touched by human hands. In impossibly steep terrain, ancient terraces hold diverse gardens sustaining tiny villages of Quechua farmers. These gardens boast orange, avocado, and olive trees amongst rows of corn, potatoes, and others. Narrow, cement-backed irrigation channels re-route tiny streams to provide nourishment in the most unlikely of environments.
Fure is a roadless settlement composed of a few, off-the-grid, families working out their days, and spending their nights in conversation beneath the corrugated tin roofs of their mud-brick dwellings. The village is framed by waterfalls and is filled with the sound of children and the pleading of livestock. We rest our heads and fill our bellies courtesy of a family fortunate enough to have an extra roof, before continuing on the next day.
Three days later I´m standing near the canyon´s lip after some of the most spectacular hiking I´ve ever known. Relentless switchbacks brought us here, and unfortunately, to this state of mind. The state of mind feels something like this: curse the sun, curse the
Elaine and Perrito
The decisive moment at the beginning of our relationship. wind, curse these rocks, curse this backpack, curse the dust, curse the people who carved this path, curse the idea that this hike was a good idea, curse the... oh is that the end? Wow, what a beautiful hike!
We convince the nicest lodge in town to give us a room for a quarter of the advertised price, and after a nap, are sipping our first drink and thinking about dinner when...
Music fills the street. Bass drums and brass horns bring us outside. There on the street a scene unfolds. Quechua women in the typical dress dance in circles, others watch, and a masked few traipse about in a trance-like drunken stupor. Some are men, some are women. The music pauses, then picks up the same beat. Over and over, the scene getting louder and louder.
The celebration is at the spring equinox (southern hemisphere), and marks the planting of corn at the cusp of the wet season. Minutes later I find myself pulled into the middle of the fracas; attempting to mimic the gyrating dance of my costumed Quechua partner. I feel eyes and laughter in and around the vicinity of me. But who cares?
I share in the laughter.
In a few more minutes I´m handed a pint glass filled with the harsh Chicha (crude corn alcohol), and am given one instruction: drink. The glass is passed from one person to the next, and if filled by a man holding a five gallon drum of the stuff. I oblige, and immediately look over to a man leaning against the wall, the one with drool pooling at the collar, and I wonder? Is that my fate? Nope! The beat goes on...
After 16 hours of bus rides, we´ve arrived in Cuzco and are preparing for the next, well, who knows?
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Mom
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What an unbelievable adventure. Your story telling is one to delight in. Thanks for painting quite a picture.