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.
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