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.