Pt. 1: Sure, I Can Go from the USA to the Depths of the Andes in 36 Hours

There are so many things that have happened in the past several months it is hard to know where to begin. I haven't written anything about one of the most influential trips I have taken thus far this year - I guess that's a place to start. I am going to type my journal from the trip rather than change all the verbs to past tense... don't get confused, this isn't happening now. And, because I might just type as I wrote, I apologize ahead of time of the incohesive use of tenses: depending on what time of day I was writing, it is half present, half past, half travel-weary confused English.

Journey to the Land That Time Forgot

August16

I arrived from the USA in the morning, at about 5AM. Most flights from the US are overnight flights... only 5-6 hours, which isn't bad, but all travel included I'd been flying since 5PM the night before. I used to be able to sleep so well on airplanes... I prided myself in being able to sleep anywhere. Well, after 7 months of travel in super-comfortable (if you choose the right bus!) bus-camas around Perú, those straight, rock-hard airplane seats don't do much for me. Suffice it to say: I arrived exhausted.

I got in touch with my friend Lucho, the watchyman I have mentioned in the past, and learned that he had bus tickets for Huánuco... leaving that night. Talk about a quick change of pace... from extravagance and luxury in the United States (and sweltering summer heat) to normal bustling life in Lima (gray, chilly, and dreary) to life in the Andes of Perú (bitter cold winter nights)... all in about 36 hours.

Luis didn't actually think I would go with him. We had talked about it months ago; he told me that he wanted to show me his village, and I wanted to see the place I had heard so many stories about. I expected to come back within 4 days or so (silly me); classes start in a few days and even with 4 days I will miss the first few days of my classes. Lucho laughed at this prospect: there would be no returning in 4 days. I have to commit at least a week, a full 7 days. I spent the whole afternoon trying to decide: can I miss that much class? I had, in my heart, already committed to go-- but what about the practicality of it? In the end, it came down to this: I want to be with Luis when he visits his mother's grave for the first time since her death two years ago.

Because Huanuco isn't really a tourist destination, none of the nice bus companies go there: I was terrified. Nice bus companies here really have nothing to do with the comfort of the seats, although that is always a bonus. My main concern: arriving alive. Unfortunately, its a real risk here-- skimping on the bus company can be a scary possibility. Our tickets were with León de Huánuco, which is the best of all the questionable companies that make the hike to this corner of the Andes.

The bus left at 10PM; Lucho (which, by the way, is a nickname for Luis) picked me up at the house at 8. We were loaded down with packages-- family members in Lima were sending clothes, food (such as bread you can't get in the sierra), medicine and other goodies to the family we were going to see. And by packages, I mean beat up boxes and huge bags of woven plastic, crudely sewn together with a thick plastic string at the top. I was the only foreigner/gringo in the empresa; in fact, even my upper-class Lima-bred friends would have been out of place.

The ride wasn't bad. Of course, I was heavily Dramamined... helps me sleep, for one, and for two... you've got to be kidding me if you think I'll travel on Andean roads without some serious nausea medication. Around 3AM though, I woke up drenched in sweat. Peruvians have this serious fear of cold, and it was cold outside (frigid, to be exact)-- but on the bus it was stuffy, muggy, and hot-- with heat on full blast. The heater was actually at my side, and if I left my leg there for more than a few seconds I got scalded.

Luis took great care of me from the outset: an indication of how the trip is going to go, I think. Every half hour or so he woke up to re-cover me with the thick polar blanket that I had inevitably thrown off in my overheated misery; he scolded me and told me, "Lore, abrigate, abrigate, tapate!"-- Lore, bundle up, bundle up, cover yourself!-- and was utterly appalled by the fact that I kept my hand plastered to the icy window- and occasionally rubbed the cold on my forehead- in an effort to not boil.

Early in the morning before reaching Ambo the bus was stopped by the police/military. They searched the bus, asking various passengers to open their bags. Apparently, Huánuco is still a heavy drug province and this highway is frequently used to transport drugs and weapons. Luis told me not to open my mouth, not to give any indication that I am a foreigner... I have yet to find out why. I remain grateful for features that allow me to blend in here and most places in the world; today included: appearing gringa is, where we are, more a risk than a benefit.

Pt. 2: There Are Sheep On Top Of Our Bus

August17

The bus we took last night goes all the way to Huanuco, but we're not going that far. That was the first indication I don't know exactly what I'm getting into: I understand now that we aren't going to Huanuco proper... but I don't know exactly where we're going. We got off the bus in Ambo.... just like on public transportation in Lima, we had to yell at the driver to be let off where we wanted.

I learned the name of our next destination: Kolpas. That's how its going to go, I think-- I will be fed details little by little, as if on a need-to-know basis. Its a good thing I trust Lucho. We located the small, beat-up bus that would be taking us to Kolpas (sometimes also written as Colpas), tied our things to the top, and set out to enjoy our free our before the next bus ride. We ate breakfast: Quinua and Cachanga (fried dough in the shape of a pancake), took a stroll through town, and bought me a pair of pants that Luis and his aunt had deemed necessary. (I had only jeans, which apparently is unacceptable. We bought a pair of what I would call "bum pants"...a cross between sweatpants and workout pants, perfect for bumming around. Also apparently perfect for walking through the Andes).

Ambo is a dusty town best described as a sea of brown, beige, and dirtied off-white walls: not exactly the Garden of Eden. But I like it-- modest with just the right degree of bustle, no pretensions whatsoever. Bike-wagons, mototaxis, and small motorcycles buzzing around everywhere; internet cafes and cell phone stores being used by men and women in traditional dress, Quechua spoken as frequently as Spanish. A surprisingly crisply maintained main square with fresh paint in bright colors, the obligatory Cathedral, and a statue of the Virgin Mary. Quaint, comfortable: I'm not sure if they actually have hotels, but I wouldn't mind staying a day or two.

The bus to Colpas took approximately two hours, and with my preventative Dramamine and lack of sleep for what is now two nights (1-overnight from the US, 2-overnight from Lima) I slept soundly. Lucho couldn't believe it. The road is... well, its a legitimate road, by non-US standards. Dirt, and full of potholes, ditches, and other things that make you bump, but wide enough for two directions of traffic: a legit road. With my head leaning against the window, I couldn't begin to count the number of times I got slammed -hard- against the glass. How I slept... and how I didn't come away with a pounding headache... I have no idea.

The bus itself warrants description. It is small, about half the size of a school bus. The seats are worn, with gaping holes in the cloth. Some of the seats aren't well bolted down, so that with every bump the seat -and passenger in it- jump a foot in the air. Other seats have broken backs, and the passenger has no choice but to travel in full recline: his head in the lap of the passenger behind him. No one seems to mind, though. Maybe they can't imagine a bus ride any other way. Half the passengers are in traditional dress, all speak Quechua. I hear a cat meowing and some chirping chicks, although I'm not sure which passenger has them in his bag. All of the bags are strapped in a tottering pile atop the bus; there are some animals up there as well (a pig, some sheep?) and additional passengers that didn't fit inside.

(to be continued...)

Pt.3: The Definition of Adventure...or Would That Be Disaster?

August17, continued

When the bus finally arrived in Kolpas mid-morning (around 9AM) I really understand how little I knew about what we were doing. It was a mad rush, a lot of Quechua, I was in a drugged drowsy fog... only now do I understand what actually happened.

We realized that the bus from Ambo to Kolpas would be pausing in Kolpas and then continuing on to Chucchuc, which was excellent because it was our end destination for day 1. However, in Kolpas we would have to get off and leave some things with Luis' aunt there: we had too much stuff and the next person going on horseback to the village would have to deliver it for us, because we would be on foot.

We got off and unloaded one of the boxes to be left; Luis was running around rushed and worried, I stood in the middle of a square in a daze, without the slightest notion of what was happening. He left a Quechua-speaking grandmother to care for me; she stood beside me and the pile of stuff and grinned at me, occasionally saying things I didn't understand and laughing (no idea what language she was speaking), observing me through deeply wrinkled, sun-worn eyes from under her traditional brimmed felt hat.


Like Watching a Train Wreck in Slow Motion
Well, we had told the bus what we were doing; in fact, we were standing right by the bus as they waited for us to organize our stuff. Then all of a sudden they got tired of waited, and they left. They left with us yelling at them to please wait; they left with half of our things still strapped to the top.

At this point Luis went in to full panic mode: I, thankfully, had my little bookbag with me; we shoved Luis' toiletries and medicines into my bag and told the grandmother to please make sure our things arrived in the village where we would be the following day. We had my little bag and some bags of bread for the family in Chucchuc, nothing else. Luis' clothes, my toiletries, our cameras...everything got left with the grandmother as Luis and I sprinted after the bus.

Sprinting after the bus turned into running after the bus turned into trotting and then walking, defeated, after the bus. It had our two big boxes strapped to the top! After about an hour, we realized it was futile. It was getting hot, we were tired, we hadn't eaten since 5:30AM, the altitude was killing me. We had no food, no water, and there were no towns where we could buy what we needed. We were on a dirt road on a steep precipice winding endlessly into the heart of the Andes, without another soul in sight. We turned back to Kolpas; we planned to return to the town, buy food and water, re-organize our things (since we had left almost everything with the grandmother), and then try and find a horse or car to get us up the mountain to Chucchuc.

Cars on this stretch of road are rare; there are typically one small bus and one to two collectivo taxis that make the trip daily. On our descent, a driver passed. He already had six men in his 4-person car: two in the front, three in the back, one in the trunk. We begged, and he agreed to take us back to Kolpas; we piled in and thanked God for the sliver of luck. Arriving in Kolpas, the driver told us he would take us halfway to Chucchuc-- but we had to leave immediately. There would be no food, no reorganizing of things, no breather. But there was also no option. I rushed into a dusty store in Kolpas and bought two bottles of water and a soda and some crackers and once again we set off. Up the mountain we encountered the bus that had left us and were able to retrieve our things; as Lucho said, "menos mal"... at least there was that.

Halfway to Chucchuc the driver left us. He dropped us at Yacan, a place in the road overlooking a valley of grazing animals and told us that, at some point, someone would pass with a horse or a mule that we could then try to rent. With us we had a big box, a large sack of clothes, my bookbag, some bread, and extra things that were tied into the makeshift manta on my back: it was too much to carry, we had no choice but to wait. There were two children also seated at the overlook - a little boy waiting with boxes and crates of beer and soda, and a girl of about 10 who was looking after the animals down below. There were no other people to be seen.

Wait, wait, wait... Walk, walk, walk...
For hours we waited, and waited and waited. We munched on our shared crackers and chewed Big Red gum that I had brought from the States. We played games with Luz Maria, the girl - I taught her Tic-Tac-Toe, MASH, and Dots. I wanted to rest against the cliff and doze, but wasn't allowed: the spirit of the mountain preys on those who fall asleep there. Finally two men passed who were willing to rent us their horses to Chucchuc. So, we loaded down the horses and began to walk.

The altitude: 10-11,000 feet; the path: straight up the mountain. We soon left the road (dirt, but intended for cars) and the way became footpaths. Chucchuc sits at the top of the mountain; our path looked just like those dad and I saw years ago in the Colca Canyon... paths we gaped at, unbelieving that people traversed them as if it were nothing. Yes, dad... I walked those. We walked with a horse, a mule, two men, and two women. I was dying, physically unable to keep up. There was no water, the sun was hot, we hadn't eaten since morning, I hadn't slept in two nights. The others did not believe me when I said I was from the United States; I think a gringo has never come this way.

We walked for hours, straight uphill, without pausing, without water, without hope that it would ever end. The most terrible part was knowing that there was no option: we had to arrive at Chucchuc before nightfall. There were no towns, no cars, no people: surviving until morning depended on getting to Chucchuc. Neither was there option for food or water: there was none, period. Not for hours before us or hours behind us would we find food. It was not strength of body or mind that sustained me, it was survival.

Waiting with our belongings
With Luz Maria

Wait... I have to Walk Where?/ Beauty That Brings Me to Tears

August18

Yacan-Chucchuc-Yanautu: Did I Really Survive That Journey?
We are in the middle of the mountains, gently sloping green-yellow peaks most bare of trees; only glass and rocks. The only people we encounter are in traditional dress, alone or in pairs watching their animals. Along the path to Chucchuc there were no towns; occasionally an isolated house, nothing more. Chucchuc was the biggest town, with maybe 20 houses and a public phone - which, much to my dismay, wasn't working. It is now Monday the 18th and I have yet to call Lima, so noone has any idea of where I am or if I am still alive.

There was electricity in Chucchuc, but I haven't seen it since. Our mules arrived last night in Chucchuc much before us - my pace just to survive was painfully slow. In Chucchuc Luis' aunt was not there, so we couldn't stay as planned; we had to continue to our next destination before nightfall. I was physically unable, and Luis was suffering as well - we had been famished for hours. We gave up on one of the packages we were carried and I mounted the mule - it was the only way I was able to continue. We asked in Chucchuc for something to eat - water, potatoes, anything. There was nothing. No store, noone with food to sell; we had to go on. Two hours later we arrived at the house of the owner of the horse. They served us dinner (Tugush -masamorra of fermented papas that I had a hard time forcing down- and sauted potato slices). The "village" was a grouping of four homes. The houses are all made of straw and stone, with straw roofs barely tall enough for me to stand at their tallest point, stacked stone walls, and dirt floors. No lights, no phones, no roads - it is the land that time forgot, and I feel as if I have traveled to the center of a National Geographic. Everyone speaks Quechua, no one believes I am foreign: they ask me to speak in "my language" to prove it to them. There are no bathrooms, all water comes from the river - I won't be bathing anytime soon.

Over dinner, they decided that we wouldn't be able to make it to Luis' cousin's house in the next town over; we would have to stay the night. By 6PM it was dark and they were preparing "beds" in the next hut. We put on everything we had with us - Luis and I sharing my clothes, since all of his things were left in Kolpas in the confusion. We each wore 2 pairs of pants, 3 pairs of socks, hats, coats, and all of the shirts we had. We slept on a bed of straw with 4 thick woolen blankets covering us. We attempted to sleep, but I was unable; sleep wouldn't come. I thought I might die of thirst - I was nearing the point of hallucination (no joke) and panicking because we were at least 9 hours walking from the nearest town with a car and another 3 hours from a town with a pharmacy. My whole body ached and my head was pounding with dehydration. When I couldn't stand it any longer and thought for sure morning was near, I asked Luis for the hour: it was only 11PM. I said I had to have water, I was near tears. He refused, said that the cold water would harm me. I insisted; he woke one of the young girls sleeping beside us and had her fetch water. I didn't know if it had been boiled or not but didn't care. It did the trick: I managed to doze until morning. Again in the morning I had to fight for water; they did not understand that I would not be able to continue the journey so dehydrated. Period.

In the house where we stayed the first night

Leaving at 6, it took another 2 hours to get to Luis' cousin's house in Yanautu. There, we were fed breakfast; we sat in the hut that barely fit the 4 of us seated along the edges - the door barely came to my waist. They have two young children (3 and 1) who are filthy, crawling in the dirt, their skin black from the earth and the cold wind and sharp sun. It was decided that we would stay the day and night: there is no choice but to roll with the changing plans. We are spending the day sitting in the grass, talking to Luis' cousin, and staring at the barren hills.

Luis' cousin Hilda, her husband and two of their children, and their home.
Yanautu

The day is long and passes with painful tedium. It is hard to comprehend where I am. Really, truly, the land that time forgot. They say that I am the first foreigner to ever come here. We were able to half-bathe (hair, face, and arms); we sat outside until nightfall and then went to bed. Luis and I slept outside in the hut that is used to guard animals at night: it is a stomach-high, igloo-shaped construction made of straw and sticks; the front is open, the floor is straw, laying fully extended my feet stuck out the front. We were piled high with 5 thick woolen blankets which thanfully kept us warm, because starting around 4PM it became bitterly cold. I was wearing 2 shirts, a mountain hardware pullover, a jacket, a thick woolen poncho, a scarf, a beanie, my jacket hood, two pairs of pants, knee-high leg warmers, 2 pairs of socks, and a big blanket wrapped around my shoulders... and I was shivering.

August19

Yanautu-Huamali-Mesa Rumi-Potrero: My Breath Catches At Just The Thought
Around 8:30AM we left Yanautu and headed straight uphill to the point at Huamali. The view was breathtaking - we walked through fields and up slopes that rarely see humans. At Huamali, the land dropped out before us and there were peaceful, sloping, green-yellow mountains in every direction. At the bottom there is a lagoon surrounded by grazing animals; we stopped to drink water mixed with homemade cane liquor and take in the view. Luis showed me where we were headed; it was as far as the eye could see, and looked like it would take days. We began walking at a comfortable pace; the path skirted the mountain with picturesque views in every direction. In the valley below we watched grazing animals; every once in awhile there were small groupings of 2-4 homes. We reached the halfway point at noon; just beyond the halfway point we began encountering scattered Inca ruins, some with their previous function still discernible.

The view from Huamali and our days journey, approximately.

Continuing the ascent to Mesa Rumi, we also passed abandoned stone homes; Luis said that the occupants were forced to leave because of the frequent, and sometimes violent, rateros (thieves) With all of the animals stolen, many families have no choice but to start over elsewhere.

We were climbing the slope, a dry, dusty, rocky expanse covered in greens and yellows of hay and moss. We walked through Inca ruins -mostly gone now- stone buildings whose remains are knee-high, still giving clues to their former identity. According to Luis, no one has ever come to study these ruins. It's the reality of Perú, in part: there are so many places that have little or no relationship with the outside world, and the whole country abounds in a rich history- unexplored ruins are, for these villagers, nothing more than commonplace.

We huffed over the edge and all of a sudden we were standing in the middle of impressive ruins - an entire town, mostly fallen but still very clear. Below was a huge, green valley, endless sloping hills, a snaking river, and a small town of approximately 15 homes, a church, and a cemetery. The whole landscape is nothing short of pristine. Looking up -with my feet firmly planted among the ruins of an ancient civilization and an untouched, rolling valley below- looking up my breath caught at the sight of the imposing, majestic, snowy peaks of the Cordillera Blanca, one of the most impressive mountain ranges in the world.

At least 12 hours from the nearest village with lights, phone, or a road, surrounded on every side by natural beauty, I was brought to tears. Never before has a sight or the magnitude of a view caused my heart to jump.



There we sat atop the ruins and ate the lunch Hilda, Luis' cousin, had packed for us: two pieces of meat and a sack of potatoes. We drank the questionable water we had brought in an old oil canister - I prayed the entire time that it wouldn't make me too sick - before continuing along the path to Potrero, the village where Luis grew up.

We arrived to Potrero around 4, having walked 6 hours from Huamali and about 8 hours in total. We stopped first to take in the town from above. Situated in a valley, surrounded by impressive slopes and jutting rocks on all sides, the town lives up to its name: Potrero in Quechua means "Hidden". There are approximately 15 buildings. The houses are different than in Yanautu; made of mud and straw, they are much larger: the doors are nearly full height (as in, my height), and inside they are large enough to accomodate a table and 4-5 people sitting comfortably.

The hills are dotted with animals and women in traditional clothing: calf-length skirts in brilliant colors- in layers of 3-5 so that they resemble hoop skirts- over top of leggings and flat shoes that resemble black leather keds; sweaters, and a thick woolen manta (shawl/blanket) wrapped around their shoulders and pinned at the neck with a large safety pin. On the head is a round felt brimmed hat -almost like a short top hat- decorated with fake flowers stuck into the belt above the brim. The men are in thick wool ponchos in muted colors, and either wear chullos -woolen/alpaca beanie-style hats with ears- or hats similar to those worn by the women.

Descending into the valley I saw one of the second most beautiful things I have ever witnessed. Luis directed me to continue down the mountain while he skirted the slope to meet his grandmother, who was tending sheep above the village. As I watched from below, Luis -exhausted from 8 hours of walking- sprinted across the hill, through the herd, and full speed into his grandmother's arms. They embraced and fell to the ground, where they stayed, crying, hugging, laughing, talking. For the second time today, I was brought to tears.

Pt.4: Am I Living in a National Geographic?

August19 - Tuesday

The whole thing is surreal: at night, I sat in the kitchen, on a mud bench covered with straw, and watched the grandmother (Mama Sabina) in full traditional clothing, tend the fire in the mud stove. Cuy (guinea pig) scurried along the floor; a cat lay at her feet and a dog under the table. There is no electricity; the only light came from the fire and the small bit of sun that managed to fit through the door. Intermittently piglets, a rooster, and chickens would enter, only to be promptly shooed away in brusque Quechua by Mama Sabina. We ate-potatoes and pork- and sat chatting. I was feverish; Luis wrapped me in woolen and blankets and placed me on a bed of hay by the fire. When finally around 7PM Luis' uncles arrived from Kolpas bringing the things we had left behind, I was able to get to my Advil and go to sleep on the bed of hay Luis had made on the porch of his mother's home. It was the most comfortable bed I'd had in days; thickly laid straw covered in animal hides and five thick blankets. At first, the night was a thick black and the stars were the most brilliant I had ever seen; later, when the moon made its appearance, it shone so brightly it was hard to sleep.

Apparently our bed had been made where the chicken also likes to sleep; she wasn't willing to give up her bed so easily. Once I was settled under the covers, she settled on top of me. Although I tried to move her, she repeatedly aggressively returned and nested on my knees.

August20 - Wednesday

We woke early, 6AM. I felt much better; we ate breakfast - bread and potatoes. I observed while the men -Tio Juan, Tio Nemecio, and Luis- sorted potatoes for planting. At 12 I bathed -a luxurious pot of boiled water- which felt incredible. The wind was cold but the sun was out and the water hot - it was the first I'd bathed since Saturday, and after two full days of walking and three nights sweating under thick woolen blankets, it was time. We sat and talked in the sun; I watched as the men sorted more potatoes; we ate lunch: a fried egg, potatoes, and freshly killed cuy.

After lunch the men went to cut more hay on the other side of the mountain. I stayed behind, and here I find myself: seated on rocks, watching women in colorful outfits traverse the slopes, tending their animals with large bundles on their backs and small children trailing behind. Men ride across the fields on horseback, others return slowly from planting, their tools in hand.

Halfway through the afternoon I move down the hill to protect the sacks of potatoes from the grazing pigs; the only sounds are the bleating of sheep, the wind whipping through the hills, and the occasional whinny of a horse. In the fields between the houses graze sheep, cattle, and pigs, while dogs sleep and chickens roam.

Its hard to comprehend: surrounded on all sides by mountains, in the midst of homes of mud and straw, there is no thought of electricity, running water, cars, or phones. I sat and watched the sun set over Rondoní. As the sun lowered in the sky, the mountain was framed by a spectacular light; I understand why there is so much folklore surrounding Rondoní - he dominates the distance with impressive stature.

When Luis and Tio Nemecio reutrned, we went to eat in Mama Juana's house. It gets dark by 6:30, so by 7:30 it feels like bedtime. It is the definition of pitch black, in a beautiful, sleep-inducing kind of way.

August21 - Thursday
(morning entry)
We woke around 5:30AM, as the sky was starting to lighten; I laid in bed and watched the rising sun burn up the clouds around Rondoní in reds, yellows, and blues. By 6:30 the clouds had returned and I could no longer see the great mountain.

It is before 7AM; it is cold. It is Thursday, August 21. I still haven't called home, classes are in session now, no one knows where I am. I'm surprised that I'm healthy. I'm still blown away by the thought that I am the only foreigner to ever visit these parts.

Luis and Tio Auroldi have gone on horseback to other villages to find workers for tomorrow in the fields. The plan is this: today, they will search for workers. In the afternoon, I think they will work in the fields. Tomorrow, others will come to help; they will plant.
(afternoon entry)
Today: It is interesting being here. I've been enlisted to fetch water, tend the stove, and today I helped plant potatoes. What a vacation. We ate breakfast -fried dough, coffee, and potato soup- and when the men were ready we headed up the hill to sembrar (plant). I carried with me a lamb -no more than 4 days old, umbilical cord still attached- that Luis had found lost on the hill. As the men began their work, I climbed to the top of the mountain, to two of the highest peaks. From there I could see Huamali and gorgeous mountains as far as the eye can see in every direction. At the very top of the highest point, I could just barely see the peaks of the Cordillera Blanca looming in the distance. I descended -with the baby lamb still tucked into my shirt- and helped with the planting a bit until Mama Sabina and Mama Juana brought lunch up the hill. It was the most traditional Andean scene! After lunch we stretched out in the sun, listened to Cumbia, and chewed coca leaves. I helped plant a bit more and then wandered to the top of another mountain. From there, the view was once again (surprise surprise) stunning. I descended; the planting moved to another area; the sky darkened and began to rumble. The wind became bitter and I retreated to the hut from which they guard their animals at night. The days are laboriously slow: it is only 3 or 3:30 and I could swear it should be approaching night.

As the sky darkened Luis urged me to return to the house; I descended quickly, falling along the way; much to my delight I found enough water in the village with which to wash my hands and face. Its only 4:30 and I'm ready for bed! I pulled out my MAC to look in the mirror: my face is sunburned and chapped by the wind. I definitely look a bit more serrana!

lunch on the mountainchewing coca with a lamb in my vest //Potrero: planting potatoes

pt.5: Betraying the Selva/Slaughtering a Lamb

August21 - Thursday

I almost feel as if I am betraying my love for the jungle when I say that this is one of the most beautiful places I have ever been. But the are different: In the jungle I felt joy and elation. Something about it - the heat and water, maybe - made me feel comfortable and happy like I do on Sullivan's Island. The jungle is spectacular in its lushness - it is vibrant, living, and feels to me like the Garden of Eden might. The Andes, on the other hand, are not that kind of warm, inviting, joyous beautiful. The mountains are parched, the colors are subdued. But they are, without a doubt, beautiful; it is a majestic, silent, awe-inspiring grandness. Both are indeed breathtaking. To think that the same country contains both - it is incredible.

The Andes don't necessarily invite me like the jungle or the ocean. Everything here has more of an edge to it, a level of discomfort that is hard to overcome. Maybe because of where I was raised, I feel joy when humidity blurs the edges of the world around me.

Either way, it would be amazing to return here to live and to bring others here, and the views of the Cordillera Blanca remain some of the most stunning I've ever seen.

August22 - Friday

Luis woke early (before 6) to finish planting; I laid in bed until 8 - insanely late here. There aren't many people left in this town. 4-5 families, half of those old women. Many of the houses stand abandoned. All of the young people have gone to the city; there are only 6-7 children that I have observed. The men discussed last night a neighboring town that had been completely abandoned - the thought is so depressing. Potrero is perfectly situated in the valley so that they can see all who approach - and they notice everyone. I barely see the ant-sized people traversing the mountains, but they notice all strangers immediately. While I was climbing the peaks yesterday, all in the town were asking: who is that man on the peak? Because I was in a man's clothing -poncho and chullo. I would so like to stay here for an extended period of time.

Around noon the men brought two lambs. I watched them slit the throats, remove the skins, and carve out the meat! Very surprisingly it didn't make me sick in the least - first time I've ever seen anything get slaughtered.

pt.6: The Definition of Filth

August23 - Saturday

I'm upset this morning. The original plan was to return to Kolpas this morning and then catch the bus to Ambo then Huanuco and finally Lima, arriving in Lima early Sunday morning. It won't happen; I'd wanted to go to church; I'm ready to be back in Lima. So, I'm kind of moping about in bed - I don't want to get up. I'm dirtier than maybe I have ever been for any extended period of time. When I woke up my hands were black, as are my nails; I'm sure that my face looks the same. There is so much dirt ground into my skin that even when I wash my hands with exfoliating face wash (sounds like a silly thing to have in the Andes, huh?) the dirt still doesn't come out. Truly filthy.

One thing I forgot to mention from yesterday: the little baby lamb I carried around with me died. His body is hanging over the door of one of the houses. There was just no milk to give him, and his mother is so skinny she doesn't have anything for him, either.

This morning, a beautiful sight: I was standing in the path by Mama Juana's house and watched a huge fog slowly enter the valley from Rondoní. It was slow moving and thick and I watched it, with its clear edges, devour the valley. The sheep are grazing right outside the hut/house, so I'm sitting on my bed of hay and sheep skins and waching half a dozen newborn lambs follow their mothers around the field. They stick out their tongues and their entire unsteady little body shakes when they bleat.

A young boy comes up to greet me; all of the children come to shake my hand when they say hello. He says that he, too, has homework ("like 1,000") but he's already done it all for Monday. The children go to school in a nearby town, about an hour away. Sometimes they stay in the town during the school week, sometimes the walk the 1-2 hours each way daily. He leaves me; he has to finish tending the sheep. I take a peice of toilet paper to wipe off my face: with each wipe I have to refold it because it comes away black, as if I had just rubbed it in mud. I think I must be 1-2 shades lighter now that I've dry-scrubbed my cheeks and neck. I go at my fingernails, but it is futile - they are pure black and no amount of soap or water or picking has made any difference.

Its interesting: here I feel exceptionally lazy and irresponsible, disgraceful even, being in bed past 6:30 or 7AM. Everyone here wakes with the cock crow around 5 or 5:30; by 6:30 all beds are put away - the blankets are folded and stacked in a corner with the hides, the hay cleared away- and people are about tending their daily chores.

I kind of feel like Tom Cruise's character in The Last Samauri, watching everyone diligently go about their tasks - tending the fire, preparing breakfast, tending the animals, shooing away pigs and chickens as they approach the kitchen. By 7:30 the whole town is empty: everyone has something to do, and it doesn't involve loafing around the village. Some are watching animals up the mountain; they graze the herds far away, and start the slow move to the pastures very early. Some are planting potatoes in the fields, some of the older women was clothes in the river and prepare lunch to carry up the mountain. The children either have tasks of their own or they accompany their parents. Other jobs include: gathering tugush from where it has been soaking for months; cutting and carrying hay from other parts of the mountain; etc.

I take out my MAC and look in the mirror: what I see is frightening. My face, despite the rough wipe I gave it earlier, is actually black with dirt: I can see the earth caked into every pore. My nose and cheeks are peeling: I am utterly filthy.

The men return from around the mountain carrying enormous loads of hay on their backs. The loads are each 2-3 times bigger than the men themselves - it never ceases to impress me: the brute force and strength shown by those in the town daily. Even the 85-year old grandmother carries large loads of water and straw, climbs the mountain and sleeps outside. The only thing slowing her down now is a nasty dog bite that she got several days ago - it is deep and risks bad infection. She went to the doctor in Kolpas and he gave her pills and instructed her to pour the capsule into the wound, since she doesn't like to swallow meds. (???)... I hope it works.

I couldn't stand it anymore, I had to wash my face in the icy cold water. I look in the mirror: still black, red, peeling: not a nice look.

cleaning Mama Sabina's wound

pt.7: Cemetery Day

August23 - Saturday

I can't decide if Rondoní is prettier by sunrise or sunset. Tonight the clouds look like cotton candy; they are illuminated yellow and white against a pale blue sky, and the light hits the mountain in a way it doesn't touch the solemn brown-green slopes in front of it: it looks like something out of a painting or an Ansel Adams photo. The valley is surprisingly noisy for a place with no modern technology: the animals are noisy; I can hear people talking up the mountain and women yelling "coochy coochy!" ("pig" in Quechua) at the pigs who are grazing where they shouldn't - although it seems to me that they are always grazing where they shouldn't, because I hear near constant cries of "carajo coochy mierda!" (f&$@ pig s@#t!)

I'm wearing a sweater and two ponchos but its just really getting bitterly cold. My feet aren't too happy with all of the mountain excursions, especially because I didn't even bring tennis shoes - only city shoes (in my defense, I had no idea that the trip would be anything remotely like this!)

I've been surprised to find that I haven't felt very hungry here, and I haven't craved any food from the States or Lima. Its odd, because it might be the first time in...forever... when I have eaten for sustenance rather than my mood. How healthy!

Luis and I went to visit his mothers grave. It was a tough climb and I was slow - we stopped for a drink at a natural spring high on the mountain - I was praying the whole time that it wouldn't hurt me, but it was some of the tastiest water I've ever had. The sun was strong and I felt myself burning even more. The views were -as to be expected at this point- incredible. At the cemetery, we visited Lucho's mother and grandmother. They are buried side by side in all but unmarked graves. He talked with his uncle, who lives in the town below, about creating real tombstones. It was sad, but Lucho was already tired of crying - we managed to walk light-heartedly as we continued the journey.



Luis' mother died two years ago, here in the sierra. No one really knows how or what happened, but she was with her animals in the pasture and fell down a steep precipice. When she didn't return to the village that night, they went to look for her. They found her body, bruised and bloody, at the bottom of the mountain. This is the first time Lucho has been back since that day; this is the first time he has seen her grave. The experience is exceptionally hard because, the last time he saw his mother, they fought. They fought a lot, and often he did not heed her advice; he remains pained to the depths of his soul because of their past, because he didn't have a chance to make it right. He tells me often to love and respect and appreciate my parents rather than fight against them, because I will regret it if I don't.




Walking back, we moved along a path on a cliff face not designed for paths; there was a steep drop below us and only width enough for one foot in front of the other. I was terrified and yelped each time I stumbled; Lucho decided it would be a good time to turn and tell me that this was the same path where his mother had fallen to her death. I did not feel better; he held my hand as we continued our slow crawl along the mountain face.

Along the way, we came across other ruins. According to Luis, no one has ever come to study the site, but it is huge, with many of the exterior walls still intact -and tall. Its a little hard to take in -the first foreigner to ever visit this area, walking through excellently maintained Inca ruins that have yet to be explored by archaeologists... apparently there is another site further down the mountain where the houses still have roofs! We didn't have time to visit, but I will certainly return... and with a camera next time.

with Rondoní


Back in Potrero, we collected the laundry spread out to dry beside the river and I was given the task of keeping the pigs away from the house. That is where I sit, looking rather silly wearing two long ponchos, throwing rocks and yelling "coochy mierda" and the pushy pigs who dare approach the house.

pt. 8: Saying Goodbye

August24 - Sunday

Luis arose at 4AM to begin preparing to leave. We have to arrive in Kolpas as early as possible, because after noon or so there are no more cars going to Ambo, meaning we would be stuck in Kolpas until the next morning. I loafed around in bed until 5AM and went to the kitchen for breakfast.

That has been the routine. We wake early and walk across the field from Luis' mother's home to Mama Sabina's kitchen hut. She is inevitably there, on her stool in front of the fire with a cat on her feet, feeding endless amounts of hay into the mud stove to boil the pot of water perched precariously on top. The cat always makes me nervous: it often sits directly in front of the hole from which fire pours. It comes away with singed fur; I'm surprised the whole thing hasn't gone up in flames. It must not have any nerves to speak of. She gives us a cup of watery oatmeal (as a drink), a bowl of caldo verde (potato soup), and places a bowl of cancha or potatoes on the floor in front of us. We sit on the thin mud bench carved into the mud wall and balance our bowl and cup on our knees; we have to be careful about setting them on the floor because the chicken and rooster are constantly peering in the doorway and will occasionally take a courageous flying leap towards our food.

When we finish our breakfast -or sometimes before- Mama Sabina mixes boiled water with the icy stream water and we are able to wash our face and hands and brush our teeth... one degree of cleanliness that would be hard to give up. The water is brown; all the water we drink and use is brown, and the suspended mud is clearly visible. It tastes good though, and I'm not sick. Its hard to believe, actually. Luis is sick -- he has had an upset stomach since almost the first day. And this is his place, his food! Everyone in town has marveled at the fact that I eat everything I am served, can climb to the top of the mountain, and don't seem to be affected by the change in food or weather. I think its half the reason they like me.

Well, this morning, departure morning, we go to eat in Mama Sabina's kitchen. A little later I am intercepted by Mama Juana, another grandmother in the town, and brought to her kitchen to eat another breakfast. There is little I can do but oblige; even if Luis were with me he would tell me "eat, Lore, eat"-- he's always afraid I'm not eating enough. While I ate my second breakfast, Luis brought a horse and a mule from the fields. He puts a saddle on one-- for me later in the day-- and the other two get loaded down with things to carry into town. Tio Auroldi and Papa Celso are going with us as well; Auroldi will be returning to Lima, and Celso goes with us to bring the horses back to Potrero with the purchases we are to make for them in Kolpas.

Mama Sabina pulls me aside as we are about to leave. In Quechua (translated by Lucho) she tells me that she will miss me; even though I have only been here for less than a week she has gotten used to having me around, I am like another daughter. Even though we can't communicate very well (my Spanish with a thick American accent and her Quechua) she will cry when I leave. Mama Juana tells me the same, tells me not to forget them, tells me to come back and live for a few months. She gets excited telling me all the things we will do: she will teach me to cook, how to take the animals out to pasture, how to make tugush. I will dress in traditional clothing (which I love to begin with) and when people from the neighboring towns see me walking along the ridge in my colorful skirts they will all want to know who I am.

The picture she paints is a beautiful one; I am already planning my return to Andean life.

pt. 9: Homeward Bound

Potrero-Colpas
We began our long journey on foot to Kolpas, following the footpaths that wrapped their way around the mountains. Luis and I left earlier than our company; after an hour or so Auroldi and Celso caught up to us with the horse - it was good timing, because in the descent the rocks and sand were so slippery and my shoes have so little tread that I kept falling and slipping down the mountain. Two hours in and I was able to mount the horse - after a week of merciless hikes, I was profoundly grateful for four extra legs.

The lower we got, the more lush the environment became. We crossed rivers and streams and were surrounded by green and the sound of water. We ascended again, and once again I thanked God and Lucho for the horse - I wouldn't not have made it, at least not at the needed pace.

Several more hours and we arrived in the town of Yamour, a cute little town with electricity and a school, perched on the side of the mountain. The views were beautiful leaving town, with grassy planes overlooking stunning valleys that seemed to insist on stopping for a picnic lunch. We once again descended, with views of our awaiting destination deep in the valley below.

It took another several hours to reach Colpas. We passed villagers in increasing number as we neared town, most with several horses loaded with supplies for their villages. We greeted everyone as "Tio/a" (Uncle/Aunt) and many seemed to know Luis. They would walk for hours, maybe an entire day, to take these products from the modern world deep into the heart of the Andes.

Look, Shes Not From Here!
Arriving in Colpas, the town was teeming with activity. It was positively beautiful and comfortable in its bustle; I enjoyed watching people who had clearly just arrived from their remote villages with their livestock, horses, packages, etc. There were people in city clothes and people in traditional dress; most women had a baby on their back; everyone spoke Quechua.

Luis left me in the square while he went to make purchases for Mama Sabina to be sent back with Celso. It seemed to be a trend: Luis leaving me, a little dazed, in the square in Colpas while he runs around somewhat frantically, completing various tasks.

I soon was surrounded by at least seven women of ages in traditional dress, remarking about the fact that I am from the United States and gabbing a mile a minute in Quechua, all the while staring intently at me with huge grins on their inquisitive faces. One older woman decided to be the spokesperson of the group who would ask me questions in Spanish (Spanish with a Quechua accent... not as easy as it sounds!) and otherwise try and get me to talk. It was both comforting, inviting, and wonderful and at the same time uncomfortable and nervewracking.

What Terror Feels Like
We found a collectivo taxi to take us to Ambo, loaded our things and set off. It didn't take long to realize that the driver was drunk. Yes, drunk with italics: even in a country where drinking and driving is generally accepted, he should not have been anywhere near a car. I was terrified. To the core of my being, scared that my death was imminent.

My nails were dug into Luis' arm, my breath was a ceaseless prayer, looping together prayers that I know, Hail Marys, verses I could recite-- as much to calm my panic as to appeal to God. Not only was he drunk, we were driving on rough, unpaved roads with steep drop offs through the desolate Andes: there was nothing redeeming about the situation.

Half an hour in, while driving through a small town, he pulled up to a roadside bodega and requested two large beers (large beers here are the size of two normal US beer bottles). I freaked, completely lost it. I told him that under no circumstance was he open either beer; there would be no drinking and driving. I was in the back seat behind the passenger; Auroldi was in front of me in the passenger seat, Luis beside me in the middle and another passenger behind our driver. Auroldi was making quick friends with the driver; he had had a few beers while waiting in Colpas. Plus, I'm not sure how much sense he has normally: he began encouraging the driver to split a beer with him. He went to open a beer; from behind I smacked him upside the head. They agreed not to drink. Ten minutes later they had the first beer open and were tossing back miniature cupfuls in single gulps. I raised my voice; I smacked Auroldi; I appealed to Luis to do something. They would listen to neither of us.

I dug my nails into Luis' arm and told the driver to let me out. Let me out on the side of the road in the middle of the Andes where traffic is infrequent at best. I would take my chances getting a ride with a bus that was coming down the mountain somewhere behind us, hopefully. The driver and Auroldi yelled at me, insulted me. He almost refused to stop. The other passenger pleaded with me to calm down, to just let the driver drive. I held my ground. Poor Lucho, I almost drew blood. But I held my ground: I would not stay in a car for the next 3 hours with an already drunk driver who continued to down beers. No.

He finally relented and stopped the car. Luis and I got out; Auroldi chose to stay with the driver. A blessing: the bus came right up behind our stopped car. It was the same bus we had taken up the mountain. We got on, we sat in the busted seats that jumped with every hole in the road. We listened to the squealing animals tied to the top of the bus; we boiled in the stuffy bus air with the sharp sun pouring through the windows. I was giddy and laughing with relief; I was happy to be alive. In retrospect, it was a good way to end the trip: not in terror, but in the same beat-up bus in which we had started the journey.

Pt. 11: Its Not Over Yet?/ Naked On A Roof

By the time we got to Ambo, I was ready for the trip to end. Not that I really wanted to be back in Lima-- more than anything I just wanted to bathe. We had been gone for a full eight days; I'd had one full-body bath, two hair-and-arms-only scrubbings, and daily face and teeth splashes. Neither my clothes nor my skin were the color they should have been.

We arrived in Ambo and paid a taxi to take us up the road to Huánuco, a 30-45 minute ride. I'd felt fine in the sierra; yes, I was dirty, but so was everyone else. Not that they are dirty people! But because everyone lives close to the land without running water, everyone appears the same. Ambo and Huánuco - now that was a different story.

Walking through the streets of Huánuco, I have rarely felt so uncomfortable or stared at. As Lucho later put it, people stared at us as if we were trash collectors. Except I feel that trash collectors receive much less attention - they slip under the radar more. Not us. I wanted to hide my black, scorched, peeling face; never have I been so pained to see my image reflected in store windows. Luckily, we didn't have to return to Lima that way. Thank God Luis had thought ahead and planned a few hours to bathe in his aunt's house in Huánuco.

I was so tired that I barely remember Huánuco. I remember a sea of brown -dirt and dust everywhere. I remember lots of bustle -back to a world of vendors on every corner, markets on every street, people coming and going and filling the sidewalks and streets. Oh yes, and back to a world with cars -I was nearly killed several times attempting to cross a street without paying attention. Eight days and I'd already forgotten about the car factor.

Like Lima, Huánuco is surrounded by hills on which families live, densely packed into often questionably-constructed homes. I asked Lucho where his aunt lived; he pointed to the top of the highest hill. Of course. I wouldn't have believed anything else - it was perfectly in keeping with the nature of our trip so far, there would be no alternative way to end it other than an insufferable climb.

We got to the base of the hill; I looked up. You've seen pictures of ancient Mayan temples with stairs that seem to go on for days? Well, it was like that. Except longer. There must have been thousands of stairs; I actually had a difficult time seeing the top. There we stood, filthy, exhausted, loaded down with our bags and winter coats we had shed in the sharp sun. Without taking my eyes off the stairs, I spoke to Lucho. I asked tentatively, afraid of the answer: So, how far up are we going? His gaze remained on the stairs as well - I think he feared looking at me directly - and answered in half defeat: The very top. So, we climbed. And climbed, and climbed. It took over 40 minutes to reach the top - and we barely stopped to rest at all.

Luis' aunt lives in a one-room house with her one-armed husband and a slew of children. I have no idea how he lost his arm, nor do I know how many children they have; I suspect that some were actually grandchildren, babies of the two oldest girls. They were perfectly nice, incredibly gracious, wonderful people. Unfortunately, I was too exhausted to be a good guest. I just wanted a bath.

Because the house had been built into the cliff side in a stair-step fashion, the shower was actually on the roof. Oh, another thing about Huánuco: it is windy. Powerfully, frighteningly windy. The wind rips through the city with such force I fear that the house will collapse. With that in mind, I climbed to the roof with my shampoo, toothbrush, and change of clothes. There is no door on the shower, so I carried with me a large piece of cloth to create privacy. It is a small room with a low shower head from which flows a strong stream of icy cold water. The floor is cement - slippery cement - that slopes steeply towards the large open drain hole in the center, like a funnel. My feet keep slipping as I stand spread-eagled on the flat edges; I fear that I will slip, break my ankle as my foot enters the rough-edged drain, and crack my head against the unforgiving cement wall as I go down. There is nowhere to put my things: anything put on the floor will slide immediately down the drain; there is no shelf, and all flat surfaces are wet. My shoes and dirty clothes get soaked. I manage to tuck the cloth into a pipe and create a semi-door -- although there isn't anyone to see other than the sheep, pigs, and chickens that also live on the roof. Well, here is where the wind comes into play: halfway through my shower, as I am shivering and soapy, the wind gusts and the cloth goes flying. Not only am I in full view of whomever might appear, I am at the mercy of the icy wind. It was possibly one of the most uncomfortable showers I have ever taken, but I was in no position to complain. Clean is clean.

We then had to deal with the problem of my soaked shoes. Normally, I would endure it. But it was already cold, and I didn't think spending the next 15 hours with cold, wet feet would be comfortable; nor would Luis permit that I stay that way. We descended the hill to search for shoes; I was already in a bad mood, didn't see anything I liked, and didn't want to waste money; I moped and dragged my wet feet like a dissatisfied two-year-old through the stores with Luis and his uncle in tow. Eventually Luis got so sick of my attitude that he took charge. He bought me a pair of shoes and socks, sat me on the nearest bench, and physically put them on my feet. We bought dinner from one of the many food vendors that sells fried chicken feet and gizzards: they are surprisingly good once you get over the fact of what they are. I ducked into an internet cafe for 20 minutes and assessed the damage: my account was inundated with "where are you?" emails that began as curiosity and ran the gamut to full scale frantic worry and panic as the week had progressed without word of me.

I was relieved when the hour finally came to board the bus to Lima. I had enjoyed Luis' aunt and uncle -I can't reiterate enough what good people they are- but I had surpassed the point at which I could no longer carry on a conversation hours before the conversation actually ended. We passed the night without event on a now-typical bus trip: slightly nauseated and overheated; being re-covered every half hour by Lucho; drifting in and out of sleep and praying frantically every waking moment that the driver be sober, that we not drive off a cliff, and that we arrive in Lima safely.

We arrived in Lima the following morning at 6AM, utterly exhausted and less than ready to rejoin the real world.

Pt. 10: Reflections From Reality

August25 - Monday

I'm back in Lima, and the honest truth - I'm culture shocked. I guess that's what it is. Reality has hit kind of hard and all I really know how to do is cry. I miss the food. I miss Mama Sabina seated by the fire ready to serve hot caldo for the frigid morning.

It is wild to feel sadness and longing for a place I only stayed 5 days. It is wild to feel culture shock just returning to Lima. I thought about what I wanted to eat today, and I thought about potatoes, about ocka, about avena, about potatoes. I miss Luis' constant companionship, I miss the stunning scenery. I feel dizzy and overwhelmed by the movement, the technology. Sitting at my computer I feel motion sick!

When we were in the sierra I told myself that I would be thankful to be free of Luis' pestering. He took excellent care of me, to the point of driving me absolutely nuts. We shared a bed - or, I should say, we slept on the same pile of hay - there weren't many other options. So, every night I would get hot under the layers of woolen blankets. I would kick off a blanket; I would take off my hat; I would keep one arm outside in the cold air. And without fail, every night he would wake up (I swear it was on the hour, every hour) and re-cover me, put my hat back on, pull the blankets to my chin. I would argue, I think one night I was even brought to tears by my desire to be left alone. He would ignore my protests and say sternly "Lore. Tápate." (Lore. Put your covers back on.) When it started to get chilly in the afternoon, he would stop what he was doing and make sure I was properly bundled up. When we ate, he would give me more food than I could finish and wouldn't let me eat lightly. It was a constant battle: "Lore. Eat." "Lucho. I'm not hungry, look, I did eat." "No, you didn't eat enough. Lore, eat." Sometimes, even if we weren't sitting together, he would look at me from across the room or field and call "Lore. Eat. Lore. Bundle up, put your jacket on, where is your hat?"

I thought I would be happy to be free of his incessant care. Instead, I find that I miss it. I slept through the night; no one bothered me. And I was lonely. I wander through the day thinking about Mama Sabina and Mama Juana, missing potatoes 5x a day, and missing the constant presence of Rondoní in the distance.

October7

Reflections from a Month Removed

I want to go back. How I felt so settled there in so little time, I have no idea. It isn't in any way logical. All I know is that I dream - day and night - about Potrero. It is the most peaceful place I have ever been. Not in a luxurious way; the life isn't easy. If you want to surivive, you have to work. But if you want to work, you can live well, in a hard Andean existence kind of way. I dream about returning there to live for months. In some strange way, I felt incredibly at home. I love it. I long for it. I will go back.