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.