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
No comments:
Post a Comment