Advertisement
Published: January 24th 2012
Edit Blog Post
Looking out the window high above the cordillera, I imagined my route north as I headed south. After explaining my plans to my seat mate, he passed me his lunch. He said I needed the food more than him. This happened on three of my four flights to Cusco. When we landed, there were plenty of anxious people holding signs. None of them had my name on them. I was expecting an airport pickup, but now I faced my first unexpected turn of events. The pickup was expensive and I was almost glad to be on my own.
After a few tense minutes waiting for my bag, I met a petite man named Ruben. Despite Ruben's miniscule frame, he put a heavy hustle on me. Thirty soles ($12) for a ride from the airport to downtown. Being as I was not yet able to convert to dollars, had no idea where we were going, and pretty much suck at bartering, I agreed. Ruben turned out to be a good kid. He drove me to the money exchange, the soccer store (my ball was stolen in transit), and finally to a collectivo (group taxi) headed directly to Ollantaytambo. Ruben gave me
his info, said he'd come visit , and made my first Peruvian encounter a good one.
I hoisted my bag onto the roof of the van and squished myself between two gringos. After an inquisitive "hey", the three of us broke into English. Bryan was a 30 year old Canadian with a set of calves for biceps. He was traveling around the Andes and was now making his pilgrimage to Machu Pichu. Katey was a nineteen year old American on her way to resume her volunteer work with Awamaki. Thinking about it now, it was quite a coincidence to plunk myself down next to one of the fifteen volunteers in the organization, but at the time nothing felt more normal.
The road rose up through the Cusco vally and twisted through favela-like barrios built into the monolithic hills. Children were playing soccer, men were lugging large sacks of potatoes and corn, women hung laundry out to dry, all before the breath taking mountain vistas. We wound through mountain roads, inching past trucks and cliffs at 50mph. The scenery, the people, the manic driving, the coincidence...I felt like I was dreaming. Until we hit the dog.
The dog
stood on the side of the dirt road on a bend. As he leaned his head forward to check for traffic, he barely had time to react. I watched out the front window. There had been many close calls, but this time I was certain. The thud under the tires brought me back from elation. Very sad, but maybe I needed some grounding.
We arrived in Ollanta shortly after the incident. Katey took me to the Awamaki office and I met the other members. I barely had time to unpack the stuff I'd brought for the kids before my host mother arrived. Her name was Doris and I was so happy to see her I kissed both her cheeks. Dorice had the dark skin, deep set brown eyes, high cheek bones, and long black hair of the Quechua people. But, like a European, stood tall and slender. We made small talk as she led me to my new home. It was news to her that I'd be staying for six months, but she seemed pleased.
The house was about a quarter mile walk from Awamaki. We crossed a bridge and stepped over a few of the Inca water
canals. Dorice greeted old women, hunched over with the weight of the bundles they carried. From within the adobe huts, people greeted us. After passing a concrete soccer stadium, renovated from Inca ruins, Doris pressed her palm against a double swinging door and welcomed me home.
A red corridor led to a courtyard covered in flowers and vegetation, shimmering in the evening light. I was overwhelmed by the space and color of the house, when a small child came running from the garden and wrapped himself around his mother's leg. I had barely introduced myself before the boy took to playing with me, as if he'd known me his whole life. His name was Ale (short for Alejandro), he was four years old. Behind Ale, came a gorgeous little girl. Her big brown eyes drew me in to discover their depth. She was a bit more shy than Ale, but none-the-less warm and cordial. Her name was Ursu (short for Ursula), she was ten. I met the grandmother shortly after. Her name was Luci. At age eighty, the wrinkles in her face told the story of every experience she'd ever had. Her skin was the color of the earth.
Her braids, like dark rivers flowing from beneath her bowler hat. She was part of this place as much as the corn fields and ruins. She personified all I had yet seen and all I would would soon call home.
After meeting the family, I was shown to my room. From the courtyard I went up a staircase to a balcony. The view was stunning. Beyond the village and its corn fields, a river ran below tremendous green mountains that blocked out the sky. They loomed over the village like a petrified title wave. I was entranced. I tried my best to absorb what I was seeing, but still the beauty escaped me. This was the view I would wake up to. I practicaly fell backwards into my bedroom door. My room was much larger than I'd expected, complete with a king sized bed and a window looking out to the Inca ruins of Ollanta, the site of the Inca's most outstanding defeat over the conquistadors. This is where I'd pass the next six months. Exhausted and slightly dizzy from the altitude (9,000ft), I free fell onto my new bed and smirked with satisfaction. At last, my journey had
begun.
Advertisement
Tot: 0.066s; Tpl: 0.013s; cc: 9; qc: 45; dbt: 0.0407s; 1; m:domysql w:travelblog (10.17.0.13); sld: 1;
; mem: 1.1mb