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Published: March 5th 2012
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We drove deeper into the jungled mountains. The driver took as far as his car could go. We thanked him and started up the trail into the dark forest. Colorful birds dartted from branch to branch overhead. Vines hung from tremendous trees like pre-historic snakes. Soon we found ourselves in the middle of a banana grove. Hundreds of bananas hung all around us. The boys rushed at them as if they were made of gold. We stuffed our mouths with the sweet sun-baked fruit. When we couldn't eat any more, we stuffed our bags full of them.
As we climbed, I began to feel a drizzle, though there wasn't a cloud overhead. The water didn't feel as though it was coming from above and I soon realized why. The roar of the waterfall sounded like a highway at rush hour. The sheer energy created by water on rock was released in a powerful wind. The waterfall was narrow and very tall. It drew a long silver divide through the mountains.
We took off our clothes and sprinted. The wind became so stong it almost stopped me in my tracks. I was drenched minutes before I reached the river. The
spray was powerful, somewhere between invigorating and plain painful. We stood knee deep at its base, shielding our eyes and tilting our heads to watch the water fall. We had no way of expressing our joy. We beat our chests and laughed hysterically. Jon discretely prayed to the giant aquatic apu. I turned my back to its spray and looked out at the dark green jungle below. When we climbed back to our packs we did not try to recreate the experience. We had all felt some form of renewal, but how it took place was beyond words. Talking about it would tarnish the sanctity of the moment. We climbed in silence.
From a clearing in the leaves above, Jon pointed to a second warterfall high above the first. We decided to camp there. They had brought nothing but a change of clothes and a sleeping bag. They had no tent, and were lucky to have found a bamboo shack with a thatched roof. The shelter was around a bend from the higher waterfall, safe from its spray. We made a fire pit in the center of the shack and after four hard hours of drying wet wood, we
had fire. We dried our clothes and I set up my hammock on a slope above.
The fire was smokey, water foamed and hist out of every log. The smoke filled the shack and I could only breath sitting down. From a distance, the shelter looked like an oyster bake. We ate hot dogs and avacado sandwiches. For dessert, we roasted bananas and washed them down with cheap rum. We told stories and picked on eachother for a while. The boys fell asleep one by one and I went to go read in my hammock.
The morning sun cooked dew into a golden mist. I ate an avacado sandwhich and took a shower under the waterfall. The water was cold, but the sun was hot. Refreshed and energized, we broke down camp and headed back down the mountain. We had run out of food and almost run out of money. We had twelve hours before we caught our bus home, so we decided to search for fruit.
We crossed the river under the first waterfall and followed a different path down. A banana grove lay on top of a small ledge. Bryan climbed up and tossed bananas
into shirts we had spread like parachutes. Five minutes later we came upon mandarine trees. The skin slipped off the plump oranges in one peel. Next, came the papayas, sweet with crunchy little seeds. We found mangos so ripe and tasty we didn't even bother removing the skin. The seeds of the cocoa fruit were encased in a film that tasted like bubble gum. I felt as though I was touring Willy Wonka's Choclate Factory. Everything was edible, sweet, and brought to a temperature that enhanced its candy like flavors. We filled up on at least a dozen different fruits and berries, storing what we couldn't fit in our stomachs in our bags.
At the base of the mountain we flagged down a taxi-van that took us to our bus stop. Maranura was a tiny little town that sat on a cliff above a giant river. From the looks I recieived, it was obvious the people had not encountered too many gringos. We set up a little campsite in a mango grove on the outskirts of town. We rested into the evening.
The ride home seemed much faster than the ride there. I passed the five hours in
a dream state, intermittingly falling asleep, unaware of when I was awake. The rattle of the cobblestones under tires woke Jon up abruptly. He glanced out of the window, then at me. He had horror in his eyes. "They didn't wake us up, we've passed Ollanta!" he screamed.
The bus dropped us outside the gates of Ollanta, about a half mile from where we should have been. It was pouring rain and the streets were covered in thick mud. My stomach began to cramp up and I knew I was in for a world of sickness. I thanked the boys for the adventure and ran home to relieve myself of the gringo's burden.
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