Running Down the Way Up (Part 2)

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Midday at the Oasis

No one ever wakes you from a light sleep. They always pull you out of either the deepest of dark comas or - perhaps worse - the best of dreams.

I am happily oblivious to time in the coma version of deep sleep when Ross's voice interrupts it.

"I did it guys!"

Before the darkness is replaced by a murky, yellow glow cast through my eyelids and onto my retinas by the bare light bulb fixed in the center of the ceiling, its sound is replaced. The sound of darkness is that of the low, thudding hum of REM sleep - the sound of the ancient, diesel-fueled machinery just below the fabric of reality that keeps everything running. The sound that replaces it is just as faint, but linear and much more crisp. It rings at a slightly higher pitch. It is the whisper of a thousand trillion air molecules bouncing off the plaster walls.

Then comes the retinal glow. Then full consciousness.

I crack my eyes open to see Ross standing at the light switch with his arms raised up like a triumphant prize fighter..

"I did it! It's 4:30, I woke up!"
"Uncanny," I mutter.
"
"Good, now go back to bed," Anna whines into her pillow.
"No, come on. We've got to catch the bus."

I open my eyes all the way and look around the room. It's cold out there, and warm in here under the alpaca blankets.

But the nuclear-powered Englishman is right. Get up. Get going.

The ski bums have also managed to pry themselves from bed, and we take turns using two small bathrooms to get ready. With five minutes to spare, we pull the large metal door open and step out into the silent street. The bus appears and pulls to a stop. We climb on amidst dozens of dozing passengers - all presumably coming from Arequipa.

The bus drops us off a few hours later in the main square of Cabanaconde on the southwest ridge of Colca Canyon. The French/Belgian expedition are taking a slightly different route down, and wander off to find it. Anna, Ross, and I go in search of food.

The sullen woman who serves us breakfast in a dim cafe gives us directions to the road that will take us out the back end of town and to the path we want. Her mood grows a bit grimmer when our patronage is replaced by that of a herd of seven or eight Israelis all chattering at once in Hebrew.

We find the road and walk out of town and through a few fields. The road decays into a narrow, uneven dirt path, and we start to get the impression that we are trespassing. A man inspecting his crops walks over and asks if we are looking for the path down into the canyon. We reply that we are, and sheepishly admit that we might be in the wrong place.

"No, no. It's fine," he says with a kind smile. "Just keep going through this field, turn right, and you'll see it."

Cool. Thanks.

We find the trail and begin our descent into a much wider and deeper part of the canyon than we saw yesterday. At first, the way is steep and lined with tall, jagged rock formations. We meet a few Australians coming in the other direction. They started climbing from The Oasis in the wee hours of the morning.

"Almost there," we assure them.

Once out of the rocky part, the path levels out a bit and forms a series of switchbacks zigzagging down the wall of the canyon. Each stretch seems to be quite a bit shorter than the switchbacks I took down part of the Grand Canyon. But I was ten years old at the time, so everything seemed bigger back then.

Back and forth, we wind our way down the canyon wall - occasionally stopping to take photos of the incredible landscape. Anna and I walk along, focusing on the rocks and pebbles strewn all around. Ross - a weekend hiker even at home - hops from rock to rock along the side of the path. It's no secret that we are slowing what would normally be a jog down a hill for him. Always the conversationalist, he reverts back to our original topic of The List of essential British comedy. He discusses Bill Bailey, Billy Connolly (of whom I was already a huge fan), and Father Ted. Eventually, the subject drifts to English drinking culture, and then on to Cockney rhyming slang.

You are probably familiar with Cockney slang if you've seen - for instance - Austin Powers in Goldmember. Recall the convoluted conversation between Mike Myers and Michael Caine in which the subtitled translation eventually collapses into a desperate string of question marks. Ross is well-versed in this jargon, and proceeds to break some of it down and explains how it works.

The idea of rhyming slang is to replace a word with another word or short phrase that rhymes with the original. A classic example is "apples and pears". This is Cockney for "stairs". "Apples and pears" is then usually shortened to just "apples". So you may hear someone say "It's just up the apples and to the left".

Another classic example is a "Gregory". This means "neck" - as in the actor, Gregory Peck.

So the heap of coke from Cornwall and I continue on down the frog and toad in the company of our long and flexy jam roll. Far above our Uncle Neds, the peasy currant bun beats down on us as the sweat rolls down our boats and Gregory's. Anyway, the view is a tutti frutti.

There are conflicting stories about the origin of the term "Cockney". One of the older (and less apocryphal) derivations comes from Continental Europe. The French were said to sometimes refer to Great Britain as a "land of sugar cakes." - "pais de cocaigne" in French. In Britain, the word "cocaigne" eventually transformed to "Cockney". But it also eventually spread to other European languages and came to represent a mythical land of resources, comfort, and opportunity.

One version of this term is, of course, Cokaygne.

We follow the path for a few hours. As we descend deeper into the chasm, the breeze fades and the temperature rises. The freezing cold of last night is a distant and pleasurable memory.

Eventually, we get low enough and are able to see The Oasis - far below us on the canyon floor. The name is an understatement. Amidst the rough desert terrain of its surroundings, The Oasis is a small patch of green trees and grass. We can also make out a few huts and the blue glow of the pool.

We move on - repeatedly looking up to see if our salvation is drawing nearer, or simply a fixed mirage.

Once we reach the bottom, we make our way through a small maze of crisscrossing paths in an attempt to stay on target. At some point, we take a wrong turn and are forced to trod through a wall of tall grass and shrubs. We push through one final barrier of leafy trees and arrive.

The rocky and sloped ground that has been beneath our feet for the past three and a half hours is replaced by an even field of grass. Lush and green, it is devoid of the plumes of choking dust that erupted from our previous steps. Several trees grow from the field, and travelers sit beneath them reading books, chatting, or just napping. On the right are a line of huts. At the far end of the field is a medium-sized rectangular pool fed by two adjacent waterfalls which, in turn, are fed by an underground spring.

A Peruvian man in worn khakis and a faded denim shirt walks across the grass to where we are.

"Hola chicos! Welcome to The Oasis. Lunch will be served at 12:30."

It is as if he has been expecting us.

"We have beer, water, and fruit in the shop. And feel free to use the pool. Will you need a room for the night? Or are you just stopping for lunch?" he asks.
"Just stopping for lunch," I reply with a tinge of doubt in my voice. I could stay here a night or two.
"How about it, Tony?" asks Ross. "Beer?"
"Oh hell yes."

We follow the man to a small cabin where the drinks are kept.

"Anna? Beer?" asks Ross.
"You're both crazy," she says, and heads over to one of the tables next to the pool.

Ross and I join her. The beers are warm as there is no electricity here. But we really don't care.

Once the two bottles have been drained, Ross claps his hands together, "Right. Ready for a swim?"
"No," I say. "I don't have a bathing suit."
"No problem. I have an extra pair of boxers you can use. Same as a suit, really."
"Ahm. No."
"Oh come on. They're clean. I haven't worn them since they were last washed."
"I firmly believe a man should always avoid wearing another man's underwear. Or knickers, or crackers, or whatever the hell you call them."
"Agreed. But you just walked to the bottom of one of the deepest canyons in the world in this heat. Are you actually going to miss the opportunity to jump in that water and cool off?"
I sigh. "Yeah. Yeah, ok."

Ross tosses me the boxers from his pack and we go off to change. When we come back, Anna is sitting on the edge of the pool, dangling her legs in the water.

"Cold?" I ask.
"Freezing!" she replies. "But its nice."

I get into the pool. It is freezing, but the irritating shock of cold water is eclipsed by the rapture of an instantly lowered body temperature.

I'm just going to float here for a while.

At half past noon, the fifteen or so travelers all gather at a few wooden tables under the shade of one of the huts. A lunch of soup, pasta, and chicken is served.

After eating, we lounge around for another half hour to rest and let the food digest. The next step is to climb halfway up the opposite wall of the canyon and head to a small village called Coshnirhua. From there we'll move back down a bit and over to the village of San Juan de de Chucchuc for the night.

We grab our gear and head across the fertile valley toward the path that will take us up.

The hour and a half that follows is essentially a repeat of the morning - only in the reverse direction. And, of course, climbing up involves a lot more sweat.

But we need only climb halfway up before the path levels off and carries on around curves in the canyon wall. Before long, we are trekking through tiny villages embedded in the side of the canyon. The solitary footpath we take is the only way in or out of these settlements. Every bit of these villages came the hard way. They are an impressive testament to human will.

We stop in one tiny hamlet to buy some apples and rest. The 300% markup of the apple price is certainly understandable considering how far they have travelled to get here - and irrelevant as I have become convinced of their magical ability to provide an energy boost on such hikes.

By mid-afternoon, we reach Coshnirhua.

Coshnirhua is even more impressive than the previous villages. They have actually managed to construct a small town square in the middle of the village - complete with a short, stone wall that affords a beautiful view of the canyon below. The square is picturesque in its simplicity and location. It is, I imagine, perfect for small town festivals on warm summer evenings.

The path we have been on continues off around another bend in the wall. This poses a problem. In theory, we should now descend again in order to cross the river and continue down a different branch of the canyon.

Coshnirhua is silent, so Ross continues down the main path to see if he can find someone who can give directions. Anna and I walk downhill to a small cluster of houses to do the same.

We walk down the tiny street with houses close to us on either side. The tin door of one is open a crack. Inside the inner-yard, we see a squat woman bending over a washboard as she does laundry. Direct and to the point as always, Anna raps the knuckle of one finger against the tin door.

"Hola? Señora?"

The woman looks up from her chore. I make some polite salutation and begin to ask if she knows where the path to San Juan is. She cuts me off by gesturing with her hand and beckoning for us to come inside. We timidly push the door open and step inside. The yard is crisscrossed by clotheslines covered in sheets and shirts. Wooden crates are stacked in various corners, and three or four clucking chickens waddle around.

She walks over to us as I ask again for directions.

"Ahh van a San Juan! Pues mira,"

She proceeds to give a series of jumbled directions with a few points of the finger down the hill.

"Ok, so...down the hill and to the left?" I ask, unsure.
"No, no, no."

The woman grabs my wrist with a wet and soapy hand and drags me back out into the street. She leads us further down the hill to the end of the path. She shows us where a different one starts behind some rocks and leads down to the river which we can now easily see.

I look over my shoulder and give a loud whistle up the hill, and Anna calls for Ross.

While we wait for him, we answer the obligatory questions about where we are from and where we are going. Her contagiously pleasant demeanor and willingness to help has earned her a bear hug and a kiss on the cheek. But I'll refrain from freaking her out.

When Ross catches up, we thank her, and start down the new path.

Within ten minutes, we reach a small bridge that crosses the river which is only about ten feet across at this point. We take a moment to stand on the bridge and look up at the canyon walls that tower above us on either side. They were carved by the humble river that flows beneath us - an ever-rushing stream of water that digs its way to the center of the Earth to extinguish the molten fire within.

On the other side of the river, we hang a right, then a left around a bend, and down another hallway of Colca. This part of the canyon is green and full of thick plant life that thrives on the moisture in the ground. Soon, we are walking a path lined with cacti, shrubs, and medium-sized trees that provide shade from the setting sun.

An hour later, we start to see "Posada de Roy" and an arrow scrawled in purple chalk on large stones every 500 meters or so. This is a welcome indicator as it is the name of the place where we are planning on staying in San Juan.

An hour beyond that, we arrive in San Juan. The village has only a few small buildings and shacks on the side of the path. The majority of the town is below us in the green valley which is fed by this branch of the river. The purple signs come more frequently, urging us to not lose hope and continue on to the other side of town.

We have actually walked all the way out of town and are starting to wonder if we've missed something when we finally see a group of concrete buildings high up on the hill to our left. We walk into the main yard where a woman comes down and asks if we need a place to stay.

Yes, please.

Once settled in our room, we rest for a while and discuss tomorrow. The idea is to make it back up to Cabanaconde by 7am. The reason for this is to catch a bus out of town to a place called Cruz del Condor. This is a large ridge where tourists can see the enormous condors that inhabit the canyon. Early in the morning, the ridge provides updrafts of warm air upon which the condors hover for early hunting. But you have to get there early before they scatter to other parts of the area. This will mean getting up at 2am to begin the ascent to Cabanaconde. As we walked into San Juan, we took note of the very steep - and very high - climb that faces us. The concern is the light. None of us have brought flashlights. But the half-moon is very bright, so this may help quite a bit. We'll see what happens.

As luck would have it, Posada de Roy has gas-powered hot water. Anna and Ross take showers. I didn't bring my towel, so I will just have to stick it out one more day. I never expected hot water.

Well after dark, we gather in the dining room for a candle-lit dinner. This is not for romantic effect - there is no electricity. The next problem is waking up at 2am. Even Ross will have problems programming his internal alarm for such an early hour. We ask the woman if she has an alarm clock we can borrow. She does not. But as luck would have it, she and her husband have to get up at the same time to make the same journey to Cabanaconde in order to catch a bus to Arequipa for supplies.

"So I can wake you at 2am. Then you can come with us down the trail and we'll show you where the bridge is."
"Ok great," I say. "Then you'll take a different route up?"
"No, same route," she smiles. "But I imagine we'll move a lot faster than you. We're used to it. You have flashlights, right?"
"No," I reply. "But the moon is bright. We're hoping that will be enough."

She looks up at the moon hanging low in the sky.

"But it is setting. It will be gone in a few hours. It will be completely dark by the time you start."
"Oh. Of course. We didn't think of that."
"Well, don't worry. We'll figure something out in the morning. You should get some sleep in the meantime."

This isn't a problem. We're exhausted and head straight to bed.

Up

The upshot of being awaken and dragged out of bed at 2am as opposed to 4:30 is that you are too tired to really notice or complain. The three of us shuffle in and out of the bathroom and prepare our things. When we are ready and leave, the woman is waiting for us outside the door. She leads us to the far end of the hostel's cluster of small buildings to where her husband, Roy (obviously the proprietor of Posada de Roy), and their sixteen year old son are readying a pack mule for the journey to Cabanaconde.

As we were warned, the night is pitch black. The woman explains to us that they have two lights. When we get to the bridge, they will lend us one of them. The boy will not be going on to Arequipa. So he will wait for us on the road into town where we can return the lantern to him.

With everything ready, we head down a stony, tree-covered path through the darkness. Once we've crossed the bridge, Roy and his son make a few adjustments to the blankets on the mule's back. The woman mounts the creature who will be laden with goods and supplies on the way back down. She hands us one of the lights - a fiercely bright LED lamp attached to a head strap and a rechargeable battery.

We thank them over and over for helping us out.

"No problem," she says. "Please tell your friends about us. There is a lot of competition in San Juan, and its hard for us to attract guests since we are so far out of town."

We promise to do so. So this is my endorsement. I need not do it as a favor or repayment for their assistance. I would do it anyway because it is a beautiful place owned by extremely pleasant people.

But for God's sake, bring a flashlight.

The small family then heads up the trail. Within minutes, they are far ahead of us. What is a novel adventure for us is a routine stroll to the market for them.

The three of us soon work out a system to compensate for the limited amount of light. Ross, with the lamp strapped to his head, jogs ahead ten meters. He then turns and points the light down for Anna and I to catch up. It is a slow method, but seems to be the most efficient way to share visibility amongst the three of us in such utter darkness.

The other problem is the rocks. This makes me the problem. This trail is much rockier and more unstable than previous paths. And although it isn't nearly as bad or harrowing as Sorata back in Bolivia, they slow me down quite a bit. My night vision is actually quite good - but my depth perception collapse in such conditions. I revert back to the old problem of wasting time and energy as I stumble and regain balance over and over. Within an hour, I am tired and frustrated. A few times I tell Anna and Ross that I'll just sit and wait for the sun to come up a bit and that they can go on ahead. I know how to get back to Arequipa, so I will just meet them there.

"Doesn't work like that, mate," says Ross. "We're in it together. Rest for a second, and we'll move on. Are you sure you don't want to just take the light?"
"No, that would be a disaster. I would just end up pointing it straight down at my feet, and you two wouldn't have any light at all."

He switches off the headlamp so that we can see a sky full of stars - a view unimpeded by any light pollution whatsoever. Coming from the Northern Hemisphere, all the constellations appear to be upside down.

At around 3:45, we reach a fork in the path. After a moment's discussion, we decide we should probably turn left. Twenty minutes later, we hear a voice far above our heads.

"OYE!"

We look up and see a speck of light shining down over the rim of the canyon. It's Roy with his flashlight.

"Forgot to tell you!" he yells down. "That's an old path, You can't take that one. You'll need to go back!"
"Ok!" I yell back as loud as possible. "We should have turned right, no?"
"Yes!"

We make our way back. Forty minutes lost.

"Someone want to tell me how the hell they got up there so fast?" I ask.

We get back on track and continue climbing.

By 5:00, there is a faint glow in the sky from the oncoming sunrise. Ross hands me the light. He doesn't need it anymore, and Anna started walking twenty feet ahead of us half an hour ago. She must have some killer night vision.

By 6:00, she is a good 200 meters ahead of us. The sky is much brighter now, and the lamp is of little help - but not completely useless to me. For the past few hours, Ross has been watching my steps and dictating obstacles to me to minimize the difficulty. "Big step here." "Slippery pebbles just in front of you."

But I can see most of it now, although still moving slowly. I tell him to go on ahead with Anna so that they can make it to the top and see the full sunrise.

"Sure?" he asks.
"Yeah, no problem. I'll be there soon. Thanks for your help"
"No worries."

He bounds off at his incredible speed and they are soon out of sight.

I reach the top of the canyon where the path levels off and leads me along just under the rim for half a mile or so. At the end, there is one more ascent and a clearing. Anna and Ross are sitting on a large rock waiting for me. Beyond that lies Cabanaconde bathed in the fresh morning sun.

We walk into town. Not far in, we find the teenager waiting for us. We insist on treating him to breakfast for having possibly saved our ill-prepared lives and then waiting around for us for so long. He declines at first, but his polite shyness is no match for our grateful determination. We go back to the same place where we ate yesterday. The woman appears to be in a slightly better mood. None of us have eaten since last night, and we devour the food.

Afterward, we go to the main square where the kid shows us which bus to take to go to Cruz del Condor. We shake hands, thank him again, and board the bus.

We arrive at Cruz del Condor where we find a large crowd of tourists hanging around. It would seem that we are part of a small minatory of travelers that actually hike down into the canyon. We stand at the walled lookout for a while and look for hovering condors. But it appears we've arrived just a little too late in the morning.

Oh well. We sit and wait for the next bus to the city.

Back at the hostel in Arequipa, we say our goodbyes. Ross and Anna are going on to Cuzco. I'll be staying here for several days to absorb the city and catch up on some writing.

Ross and I shake hands and promise to try and meet up in New York - the last destination of his trip. Anna and I hug. We've been traveling together for the better part of a month. It will be strange to go on without her.

They gather up their things and hail a taxi for the bus station.

The hostel is quiet and devoid of conversation. I sit in my room and organize photos from the trek.

Done.

I sigh.

Now what?

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