A Nevada Story

A Nevada Story

For Bev

Primm, NV, USA

At 5:50 am I boldly stride into Buffalo Bills Casino.  Having never gambled in my life, I have much to learn about the sport at the heart of city that I am calling home these few months.  In the highly exercised neurons of my brain in charge of day-dreaming, I envision gambling as a hardcore pastime of sorts.  Men in cowboy hats with a lump of chew in their cheek lean over card tables manned by big-bossismed, garrulous women, and think deeply about every play before betting.  Every once in awhile a pistol fight breaks out over blackjack dispute and the looser is quickly dragged away through the swinging double doors and left to rest among the tumbleweeds.  Las Vegas, the epitome of the wild west. 

As I quickly learned upon my arrival in the silver state my dreamy gambling world was a bit antedated.  Outside the casino is the Mojave; bare dusty mountains overlooking even dustier plains of creosote bushes any yuccas.  Ostensibly, the desert is barren, the only movement are the mini-tornados that one sees through the car window.  But truth is, life is there if you look for it: jackrabbits sprinting from bush to bush, wild burrows braying, kangaroo rats scavenging for food among the bipedal visitor's belongings, brightly colored lizards doing pushups, tarantulas lumbering along and the winsome desert tortoise. 

Once inside the casino, the world outside ceases to exist.  The few windows are darkened and in lieu of the veritable desert backdrop, a false landscape of western-style corrals, mountain plateaus and tumbleweeds all made of plastic and appearing quite unauthentic pervade. On the floor of the casino, red purple, yellow and blue lights flash and fade, flash and fade in every direction.  With their bododo-bododo chimes the computer screens set side by side (more cramped and closer to one another than even the worst employer's cubicles), invite guests to play games to WIN; games that resemble the ones I was so thrilled to have on that very first DOS computer that my dad brought home in 1992. 

In the bathroom I don't think twice about the tawdry-outfitted woman in the leopard print blouse.  She left the water running while reapplying her heavy eye makeup.  I was focused on the waste of water in the desert during my interaction with her and it wasn't until I was steeping out of the bathroom that I took pause.  It was 5:50 am. Why would one need to be reapplying their makeup at 5:50 am?  I wondered if she was an early riser and just started gambling or if this was the last push before calling it a night.

Back into the main casino hall I spot two black women, one in her 50s, the other in her 30s, they turn to each other with huge grins and high-five.  Obviously, a WIN!.  A Caucasian women seated nearby has her returning players card plugged into the slot machine and stares blankly at the computer screen, presses a button and takes a long drag on her cigarette, presses a button and takes a drag, presses a button, presses another button and takes a drag.  Her vacuous demeanor a stark contrast from the upbeat and stentorian cartoon-character game she is playing.  Her skin pale white as if it has never seen the sun, she sits like a wraith trying to make a few bucks before departing this world for the final time. 

And what was my purpose in Buffalo Bill's at an ungodly hour in the morning, you may ask (those of you that have spent a significant amount of time around me understands thoroughly that in my world waking up early is met with nothing short of antipathy)?  Well, this is my life.  I am living in Primm, NV, 1 mile from the CA boarder and 40 miles southwest of Las Vegas.  And today, I needed to make a reservation, because Buffalo Bill's casino is home.  I am here, acting as housewife to my partner Alex, while he works long days looking for the aforementioned tortoises. 

The Mojave Desert tortoise is a federally protected species.  A significant amount of resources are dedicated to relocating them during any type of construction in their native habitat.  Alex is here, along with a few hundred other scientists to relocate tortoises for the construction of a solar energy plant.  I have never seen a crew of people so in love with a single species that is not their own as the crew of biologists looking for and saving the desert tortoise.  As an animal lover myself, I can relate, but was still surprised when I fully grasped the extent of these people's ardor.  They eat, drink, breathe and talk tortoises.  Anything else is perfunctory and trite.  It did seem a little overkill to me.  

Then I had a chance to see the reptile around which all this hubbub revolves, and fell madly in love.  How is it, that a creature that may spend a whole day moving 300 feet from one patch of desert to the next be so exceedingly charismatic?  Small and tough the desert tortoise is surprising plucky; as I sat eating lunch near the railroad tracks (yes mom, that is what I’ve come to) I watched a grown male tortoise parade through the underpass next me, fully aware that a predator-like mammal was near.  As a train passed and shook the whole structure above us, he paused in his saunter, took in his surroundings and continued on his journey. (the picture posted is from this interaction.  To all the tortoise bios reading this, don't worry, the photo is from a distance and in no way did I disturb or move closer to this guy than he initiated).  

My most intimate interaction with a mojave tortoise was while I was shadowing one of Alex’s co-workers while performing the weekly radio tracking task.  As I marched through the creosotes with an archaic radio antenna in hand, listening to beeps leading me towards tortoise # 153, I happened upon a juvenile tortoise cuddled up underneath a bush.  This was extraordinary!  It was early in the morning, around 55^◦ and it had been established that the tortoises usually active during 65^◦ and 95^◦.  It was far too cold for this little guy to be out.  Additionally, yesterday had been darn cold as well (respectively speaking of course).  This little guy probably had been stuck outside in the open for a day and a half and two nights.  It was a surprise an eagle hadn’t picked this one up for a meal.   

The project was in need of tortoises in this age group to monitor their behaviors, so it was decided that I would babysit while the person I was shadowing would return to place a transmitter on our new find when the appropriate ambient temperature was reached.  I had two whole hours alone my new friend (soon to be called number 313).  Per protocol, I remained as far away as possible while still maintaining visual contact.  As the day warmed up, he poked his little out of the his shell, slowly took in his surroundings, looked right, then left, swiveled his head back to center and yawned.  The biggest yawn I have ever seen from such a little mouth.  It was simultaneously precious and comical.  His front right leg stretched out from his shell, tilting his body askew, both his back legs followed at, well, a tortoise’s pace, and then his left leg made an appearance a minute or two later and evened out his vertical body position.  About 10 minutes later he took a few steps, stopped, and yawned again.  Over the course of an hour, I watched and followed as he, with fierce determination ambled the 15 or so meters to his tiny burrow and settled himself inside the cozy haven of his home. It was amazing to think that while he sat in the open and vulnerable for what most likely was two days, the safety of his home was 15 meters away.  He probably felt as lost and far away from home as I did when sick in Peru.  Distance is so relative. 

Solely, housewife and tortoise admirer, I am not.  While I do attempt to cook and clean for Alex, do his grocery shopping and laundry I have quite the schedule myself. Most days, I drive the 50 miles into Las Vegas proper, attend bikram yoga classes and hang out at the Enterprise Library. 

I like the Enterprise Library over the many other, ritzier libraries in Las Vegas because of its name and the fact that it is proud of its name.  The Enterprise Library has reunions for Trekkies during which nerds can dress up like Diana Troy and Warf (all NG, I'm sure) and hang out, inside the USS Enterprise. 

I don't spend my time in the Enterprise in far off galaxies, however.  My Galaxy is comprised of the 15 or so GRE study books that I lug around with me and can now recite much of.  I spend most of my days studying and struggling to come up with nice things to say about myself in my statement of purpose for graduate school. 

Most people who are familiar with my lifestyle balked when I told them that I was living in Vegas for the fall.  Rightly so.  However, I must admit that I am extraordinarily happy here.  My time here hasn't been without bumps in the road: the joy of living out of a small hotel room with one's significant other  after being used to the world as a stage can be a stress to say the least. 

Also included in my list of interesting experiences are:

·navigating traffic in a city that allows no left turns (zoolander would love it!)

·commuting 100 miles 100ºF with a car that makes weird noises when the air conditioning is switched on

·being hit on my a man with an outline of the state of NV tattooed on his neck

·being hit on by a man from the next car over at a stoplight

·braving fox news in the hotel gym

·having people look at me like my dreadlocks are a birth defect

 This life is a far cry from what I had in mind when I left Boulder in December and an even father cry from my subsequent life in Peru.  Nevertheless, it is exactly what I want.  I wanted time to focus on my future goals, to take the necessary steps to propel my life into its next stage and that is what I am doing.

I choose Las Vegas for the sole reason that the person I want to spend my future with is here.  For me that is reason enough to endure a few months of geographical unease.  By compromising on location now, I am building the foundations of a relationship that will be an integral part of my future.  Additionally, I have found that Las Vegas is an ideal location for me to study for the GREs.  Ironically, this city has very few distractions; I don't have the social network to convince me to party and I don't have the hiking trails of boulder or the rain of Oregon as more enticing ways to pass the time. 

So here is a toast to sin city, the weirdest place I have ever lived.  

Dad-isms

Waiting at the arrival gate of the Medford Airport,I can hardly keep my feet on the ground. I’m 6 years old, 8 years old, 10 years old and 12 years old.  Through the years time and time again, the exhilaration of greeting my dad upon his return from business trips, does not fade.  Yes, I’m excited to see him, to have his physical presence back in the family. But, to live vicariously through his stories in the places and with the people that are so mysterious, intriguing and currently inaccessible to me are the real reason my knees are doing a jig.  

He would push through the exhaustion of weeks of travel to tell me stories of his business meetings, which to my young mind were the most amazing of adventures in distant lands. I was enraptured with every foreign item that emerged from his suitcase. The duty-free perfume gift boxes he would bring back for my mother were the most luxurious items that this girl from the boondocks had ever seen.  And the gifts he brought back for me were unrivaled: the airline-sponsored free magazine, a small Asian fan, airline peanuts, a skirt from Mexico, the plastic-ware from the on-board meal, and my number one favorite, the United Airlines issued barf-bags. 

My father tried his best to encourage my enthusiasm regarding travel while adding a twist of the pragmatic.  One of his many dad phrases that I remember with clarity said with the sarcasm that experience affords: Travel is So Glamorous. 

And after years of rolling my eyes at his corny and trite statements, I have now come to the point in my life where I heard my father’s words though my own mouth.  I even turned my head to look when the statement Travel is So Glamorous hit my ear drums. But my dad isn’t even in the same hemisphere through which I’m currently traveling…hmmm, and the pitch; it was much too high.  Oh, right that was my voice.  

Well, he was right. I felt nothing akin glamor as I stood at the Bolivian/Peruvian boarder, smelly, tired, but so excited to be on my way home when I realized the bus driver was telling me in his rapid and slightly unintelligible Spanish that Peru’s boarders were closed.  I caught a few phrases here and there: miners strike, roadblocks up, no one knows how long it will last, not possible to cross the bridge.  After spending the whole first half of the day traveling it was time to turn around head back to La Paz. 

That is when it hit. The dad-ism.  Travel is So Glamorous. 

I recoiled,  did I just say that?  Then it is true: as one ages, they resemble their parents more and more.  Then I realized, that maybe it wasn't so bad.  I have made it a goal to incorporate into my own life the best qualities that I observe in the people that admire, and while it is so easy to find fault with those that are closest to you, my dad sure does have a number of admirable qualities.  Sarcastic humor in times of stress being one, And well, sarcastic humor in a time where I may just miss an international flight worth $1700 might be the healthiest reaction possible.

But, never fear.  To save you inordinate amounts of stress and worry let me tell you dear readers, your intrepid traveler friend has now successfully reached her destination, although in a much more expensive and less glamorous fashion than originally planned. 

 For your reading pleasure here is my cost/benefit analysis of my itinerary changes.  

-futile bus tickets from la paz to cusco:               120B

-extra night and day in la paz:                            400B

-unused plane tickets from cusco to lima:           $133usd

-last minute plane tickets from la paz to lima:     $290usd

-extra cost of a night in Lima:                            S./100

-3 shots of whiskey on the LAN flight to lima:      Free

-going through Peru immigration and customs totally snockered: priceless.

While flying may seem more glamorous than riding a bus, I managed to loose my extra glamor points when I was relegated to wiggling my way under the bathroom stall door after it jammed, with me and my luggage inside (and I assure you at that particular time, I was as sober as could be).  

Once I gather my wits and have a chance to sit down and compose my thoughts in an intelligible manner, I will post the glamorous stories of the bugs, snakes and blisters (and much more amazing things as well) that Jen and I encountered in the Yungas. 

Diamonds are a Girl’s Best Friend

Developing an appreciation of the desert has been a long process for me.  As a pedigree Pacific Northwest girl, I have associated the green terrain with beauty.  Full, evergreen filled, misty forests with dense underbrush, teeming with wildlife are my version of paradise.  Deposit me in an open landscape and I feel vulnerable, alone and struggle to see past the barren, dry and dead backdrop to the actual beauty and life that exists in spite of the harsh conditions.  In high school I discovered Barbra Kingsolver; High Tide in Tuscon and The Bean Trees began to reform my thinking.  If such an amazing author could see beauty in a venue where I see vast nothingness, maybe I wasn’t looking hard enough.  Fast forward and I began to visit the desert in small quantities and make friends with people who are passionate and love such landscapes.  I even moved to Colorado and enjoyed climbing trips to various dry environs. 

But my love for trees continues, and I find very little about the desert to be superior to a water-logged old-growth forest.  On day two of our three-day Salar de Uyuni tour (Bolivian, salt-flats and desert), I began to feel that I had seen enough of the desert.  My day consisted of a view of snow-capped mountains surrounding vast plains of sand and rock after rock after gravel pile after brightly colored, alien looking pool: green and then red and then blue, then flamingos and dust with a layer of dust on top.  I can’t really complain, it is beautiful and some parts are like nothing I have every seen before, but alongside the sand in the eyeballs, biting cold, sunburn, windburn, dehydration and hours upon hours spent in a small jeep, I’m ready for some trees and rain and an long trail. 

Then, after dinner, I discover the true beauty of the desert.  The one thing, in my humble opinion that the desert does better than any forest: nighttime.  Nothing stands in the way.  It is pitch black.  The smell of santo incense burning in the fireplace of our hostel waft alongside the tranquil breeze.

I look up in awe at the stars of the southern hemisphere.  Brilliant and overpowering compared to the ground on which I’m standing.  There is nothing between me and the heavens.  Even the mountains seem to be deferential to the all encompassing strength of the Milky Way.  I know that in comparison to the millions of light years that separate me and the stars, the 16,500 feet closer that I stand to the heaves tonight is respectively insignificant.  It must just be the placebo effect, but tonight my interaction with the stars is much more intimate. 

They truly sparkle; glimmer then fade and then shimmer again.  They are singing to me their song, their story, in the only language they know, light.  Luis and Francesca join me out in the cold and give me a lesson in southern hemisphere constellations.  I walk out farther into the desert, away from everyone and past the reach of the lights that stream from our hostel.  I relish the combined sensations of isolation, vulnerability and the silent commune with something bigger than myself.  Truly, these seemingly little, twinkling stars are just like diamonds in the sky. 

The next morning our crew wakes at 4:45.  The sun is still hidden and I notice instantly the change in the earth’s location in relation to my newfound ethereal comrades.  Our whole crew gazes up, with bleary eyes as we pack the jeep in preparation for the day.  We watch the sun come up over the steam from thermal geysers and then warm ourselves before breakfast in the hot springs. It is our last day of our Salar de Uyuni tour and I guess I’m ready for a little more desert. 

Photos of our Salar de Uyuni tour can be found on my on my facebook page.  

Travel and Communication

The day before Jen arrived in Peru I went to the Cusco bus station to pre-purchase our Cusco to La Paz bus tickets.  The experience of an overnight bus can be pleasant or unbearable depending on seat choice, road conditions, driver quality etc.  I wanted to explore our options and purchase the best tickets within our price range so that Jen’s first overnight bus experience would be positive. 

I was quite proud of myself for communicating so well with the friendly salesperson of San Luis bus line.  I confirmed three times that we would not have to change busses.  The only stops on our journey were to be an hour break in Puno to give the passengers a chance to purchase breakfast and then again at the Peru/Bolivia crossing, where the bus driver would walk us through the boarder formalities.  We were to leave Cusco at 10 pm and arrive in La Paz at 1pm the following day. 

As the bus’ motor revved at 10:15, I turned to Jen and commented that she must be a good luck charm.  Everything was going so smoothly, all of our modes of transportation up to that point had been so simple to find and was always on time, much different than all of my other experiences.  I forgot to knock on wood. 

We arrived in La Paz at 5:30 pm the following day after transferring between three different busses, a janky combi, and a boat.  The boarder crossing, which took over an hour was anything but straightforward and required that we hike across the boarder while our bus driver tossed our checked bags onto the pavement and then drove off leaving us in a state of confusion about which of the three immigration offices we should check in with first. 

That adventure wasn’t quite enough for us.  We decided to book a second overnight bus to Uyuni that left 2 hours after we arrived in La Paz.  We wanted to be as efficient as possible and just make it to our destination, we could sleep next week.

After much more bus-ride booking mis-communication we arrived in Uyuni at 7 am after 33 hours on the road.  Within an hour we had our tickets booked for a Salar de Uyuni tour and at 10 am piled in the jeep that we called home for the following 3 days. More on that trip later, but in the meantime check out the pictures I have posted

A small tribute to a gringa’s best friend

Dogs seem to know when they are meeting a dog-person and welcome them into their lives with gusto.  That love-at-first-sight connection Sambo and I had was no exception to this rule.  This curious, loyal and energetic oversized black wiener dog decided I was a friend the minute my backpack hit the floor in his house on January 6^th. 

Our relationship grew quickly as the gristle and fat from my evening meals that I couldn’t stomach found their way from my plate to the floor. When I was lonely and yearned for companionship, but was too exhausted to begin conversing in Spanish, he would listen with rapt attentiveness as I babbled on in English about my worries and desires.  His little legs served him surprisingly well while accompanying me on my runs and his petite body is the perfect size to curl up under my shadow with his head next to mine, while I adjusted my posture in downward dog. 

While Alex was visiting, Sambo, like any perceptive individual realized he was second fiddle and kept his distance.  But, upon Alex’s departure he quickly forgave my earlier discrimination and resumed his self-appointed role as the man in my life. 

While I’ve always longed for a big, fluffy, slobbering, herding dog to call my own, I must admit this funny-looking little dog is a perfect companion.  He is small enough to carry over all the bridges on our runs (he doesn’t like walking across bridges), indiscrete enough to spend three hours napping on my lap while I do computer work in a high-end café, mellow enough to attend Awamaki Health’s weekly meetings and burly and feisty enough to take on 3 dogs, each 4x his size that were beating up on his friend, the dog I call sad-looking-but-sweet-broken-leg-yellow-dog. 

After four months in Ollanta, Sambo now attempts to follow me everywhere.  My fellow passengers (all locals) looked on incredulously as he happily hopped into the combi van after me this Tuesday, and as I told him, in Spanish, that he couldn’t accompany me the town 30 min away and that he must return to the house.  He has relocated his sleep space from a more comfortable venue and now rests directly outside my bedroom door, growling at family members that dare interrupt my rest.   He accompanies me to Awamaki functions, patient visits, restaurants, the bar and the market.  While I was violently ill with Typhoid and making trips to the bathroom every hour in the night, he loyally followed me up and down the stairs on each occasion offering moral support for my suffering. 

Now that my time in Ollanta is drawing to a close I realize how much I will miss having this particular four-legged companion.  There will assuredly be other dogs in my life, and I bet other gringas in his.  But I’d like to think that the friendship we have shared here is something special. 

Choquequirao

 I bet you have heard of Machu Picchu. And if you follow my blog, you've read about the Colca Canyon.  These two places are some of the most visited tourist destinations in Peru.  According to Peru’s tourism department Colca canyon is #1 and Machu Picchu is #4¹.  But have you heard of Choquequirao?  Not many people have, and well in my humble opinion:

Machu Picchu and the Colca ain’t got shit on Choquequirao.

These ancient Incan ruins, called the Cradle of Gold (Chuqui K’iraw in Quechua) span at least 4,400 acres; probably more since excavators haven’t even uncovered half of the site (a publication from 2005 cites less than 30% had been excavated² and another article³ from 2007 gives the same number, wiki reports⁴ 30-%-40%).  To access the site, one must hike North out of the town of Cachora, paralleling potato and corn fields, then west across a hillside to reach the top of a grandiose canyon, down almost 5,000 feet to the banks of the mighty Apurímac River, and up the other side gaining back all the lost elevation (and then some) along an even steeper trail.  The trail flattens and turns west, paralleling another hillside covered in rock-fall, mudslides and waterfalls.  Twenty-nine kilometers into the trip a friendly park ranger charges S./35 pp to enter the site and visitors write their name and travel information in a book: the reason for the book is to keep track of tourism, but it sure feels good to announce to everyone else that indeed you made it and you are still capable of piloting a pen, even if the handwriting is a bit shaky.  The journey to Choquequirao is not quite over yet, down about 500 feet and back up is the camping site, and exploring the ruins is a hike in and of itself. 

There are numerous tour companies that offer guided trips to the ruins.  Backpacks are strapped to mules, Peruvian guides offer historical tidbits and lead the way, and food is provided and prepared by a trained chef.  Some companies even offer horses so that one need not exert themselves too much.  Alex and I chatted with a number of people who hiked to the ruins prior to setting off; all had wonderful accounts of their journey, but only one had done the trip unassisted.  When we learned it was possible, there was no question in either of our minds; we were going to do the trek sans guide. 

Turns out the trails are well marked and one need not have advanced orienteering skills to find their way and while the hike is burley, especially with 6 days of food and supplies on one’s back, it isn’t really that bad; I did the whole thing in my chacos (although that may not have been the smartest thing-see fb picture of my ankles on day 3).  Most guided trips were completed in 4 days and consisted of very long hikes each day and only a half a day to explore the ruins.  Alex and I took 6 days, had a reasonable hiking schedule and almost 2 full days to explore the vast ruins.  The guided trips cost upwards of $200 usd pp.  We calculated that including transportation and food, we each spent $60 usd.  Unquestionably, we made the correct decision. 

                                

Our second night on the trail found us at the Casa de Santa Rosa.  We probably could have found a free spot to set our tent for the night, but for S./2 we were given a lovely grassy yard on which to camp, access to a diverted stream to wash and an affable and loquacious host.  Julian must have been used to speaking with gringos; he spoke clearly and slowly and used simple words and phrases.  Over a dinner of fajitas and local fruit, Julian told us about his home. 

Excavation of the ancient Incan site began in 1993 and the first tourists began to trickle in; most were from Europe.  In 2007 when the New York Times travel article on the site was published, there was an onslaught of American tourists.  Prior to the article 15-20 tourists were passing though Santa Rosa each day; shortly after that number increased to 200.  The change was short-lived however, as soon as the severity of the economic recession was realized in the US, Julian’s social interactions dropped substantially (as a side note: the NYT article made our lovely host famous, I encourage you check out the article if you can).  The day Alex and I arrived in Choquequirao, there were two other gringos in the entire 4,400 acre site. 

According to Julian the ruins of Choquequirao isn’t the only reason his home is so amazing and we can attest to that.  According to him there are 5 spectacular features:  

1. The canyon in and of itself is amazing: steep walls prone to rock-fall and landslides (both of which we had the fortune of witnessing from a distance) tumble into the angry rapids of Apurímac.  The 25’ waves, tide-like movements of water along the banks and 15’ holes reminded us that we were visiting in the height of the wet season.  The Apurímac seemed to me, like less of a river, and more of an angry ocean that was late for an appointment downstream.  At lower water levels, this section is raft-able (in fact I will be rafting another section of this river with Roadmonkey later this year, come join me if you are inspired!), but in the present condition, Alex, the competent veteran river guide swore that there would be no possible way for a raft, much less it’s passengers to survive a ride.
2. Obviously the Ruins
3. The biodiversity of the area: The huge variations in elevation give rise to distinct climates.  On the Cachora side of the canyon it was hot and humid; all shades of green were accounted for in the vegetation as we slid our way down the muddy path.  I commented to Alex that I felt like we were on a jungle tour.  Ten minutes later our mouths fell open as a flock of bright green parrots soared out of the dense undergrowth.  Two hours later, on the dry and dusty canyon bottom, I pretended to be part of an old western movie as I, in my leather cowboy hat, sauntered past three prong cactuses 12 feet tall.  At the Casa de Santa Rosa, I was reminded of a rainforest as my poor ankles and neck were eaten alive by a swarm of sand-flies, even through the deet.  Hiking up to the ruins I was dazzled by the colorful arrays of butterflies and orchids (74 different types have been identified in the canyon according to Julian).  The ruins themselves have such an elevation variation that the rainforest-like climate that takes over the agriculture terraces below, gives way to brushy-high altitude plants that reign in the ruins of the ancient city above. 
4. The condors: these vultures are the largest flying land birds in the western hemisphere and play a significant role in Andean culture and mythology.  For more information check out the wiki article on the significance on the Andean Condor
5. The Mountain:  oh the mountain, the elusive mountain that teased us with only glimpses of its snowy shoulders during the first five days of our journey.  On our last day in the canyon, the clouds lifted we were rewarded with picture perfect views just as the sun was setting.  Towering over the canyon 6,271 meters/20,574 feet, Mt. Salcantay (Sallqantay in Quechua, translated to Savage Mountain) is a domineering feature in the already mind-blowing terrain. 

There are rumors, floating around in internet space of a planned cable car to the ruins to increase tourism.  Scouring Peruvian government websites, I was unable to find any solid plans for such an eyesore, and have a hard time comprehending how it would be physically possible to construct such a device.  I did run across a report from American University suggesting that the Peruvian government is committed to fostering sustainable tourism in Choquequirao and preventing the train-wreck tourism that has occurred with the increasing popularity of Machu Picchu.     

The trek to Choquequirao was a-once-in-a-lifetime experience that I would turn into a twice-in-a-lifetime experience in a heartbeat.  I encourage all of my friends that are physically capable to give themselves the gift of experiencing this natural wonder.  But please, first do your homework and plan your trip, guided or not, so that it supports sustainable and responsible tourism. 

Our pictures are uploaded in facebook in a new album: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?fbid=1762912510639&id=1173879859&aid=2095997

References:

1.  “The top Ten Attractions” Tourism Website of Peru.  http://www.visitperu.com/10Top.htm.  Accessed May 20, 2011.

2.  Choquequirao: Crib of Gold.   The George Washington University and American University Report on sustainable tourism and development in Choquequirao.  http://www1.american.edu/ted/peru-culture.htm. Accessed May 20, 2011.

3.  Todras-Whitehill, Ethan.  “The Other Machu Picchu”.  New York Times newspaper article http://travel.nytimes.com/2007/06/03/travel/03inca.html Accessed May 20, 2011.

4.  Choquequirao.  Wikipidia article.  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Choquequirao.  Accessed May 20, 2011.

5.  Plan Copesco.  Development Plans for Peruvian tourist destinations  http://www.copesco.gob.pe/cservicios_choque.html.  Accessed April 3, 2011.

Last Tuesday...

Last Tuesday…

Was a picture perfect day.  Sun shining, the mud on the non-paved parts of the road almost dry, a few puffy clouds floating lazily along.  The rainy season is finally over!  Lurdes and I navigate the bumpy dirt road connecting her house with the main carretera that leads to Ollanta.  She tells me that I’m doing well and Leander usually takes her down faster-I’m not sure if she is telling me that I’m boring or that it is nice that I’m safer.  Probably a little of both.  We make it down the hill start heading down the gentle hill on the paved road.  Lurdis tells me to let go. I balk, wondering if I understood her correctly.  She repeats.  I oblige and we commence to race each-other down the hill.  Luridis urges her wheelchair faster and faster as I jog along beside her, my book-laden backpack lurching back and forth with each step.  We get to the bottom, both breathless and grinning from ear to ear. 

The normally 30 min walk between Rumira and Ollanta is significantly more entertaining and longer today; I’m piloting a wheelchair with the 18 year old mercurial Peruvian girl that I have grown so fond of over the last few months.  We chat the whole way to Ollanta.   Lurdes is extraordinarily patient with my heinous Spanish accent and pathetic vocabulary.  We chat about life, boys, friends, the weather, geography, travel and health.  She teaches me Spanish phrases and I remember them after the 20^th time, I teach her English phrases and she remembers after the 3^rd time.  I can’t help but thinking that if this bright, perspicacious and kind girl lived in the United States where she had access to education and new innovations for disabled persons, she could easily use her natural talents and intellect to become a successful professional and an independent person. 

I want so much to help her achieve that type of life here.  For now, she is at the mercy of her busy and abusive mother and alcoholic step-father.  Her younger siblings help her out, but they have their own worries and don’t want their lives to revolve around their disabled sister.  Lurdes can’t cook, not because she doesn’t have the skills, but because she can’t reach the counter. She can’t leave her house without help.  Even with her new wheelchair, she needs someone’s help to navigate over the small canal that has formed in the dirt between her shared bedroom and the kitchen.  She has never attended a day of school, cannot read, and up until a year ago when she first met Leander Hollings and connected with my small help she dragged her body around with her arms anywhere she needed to go, had very few opportunities to leave her house or interact with people outside her neighbors and family and had no medical attention for her re-occurring UTIs, rotten teeth or her chronic pain caused by the osteogenesis imperfecta from which she suffers.

The reason I wish to empower Lurdes to achieve independence and professionalism here in Peru is twofold.  In addition to caring about her as a person, I feel that putting resources towards her personal and educational growth will pay-forward into her home community.  She has the potential to become an advocate for other disabled individuals.  In fact she has already started.  In addition to struggling with the normal worries of an 18 year-old in a tough living situation, she now sits on the board of My Small Help, has referred Awamaki Health to other disabled individuals that need assistance, is friends with half of Ollanta and interacts in a kind and caring manner with her peers and siblings, despite her tough living situation. 

Osteogenesis imperfecta is a horrible disease. Check out the wiki article on it for more info: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Osteogenesis_imperfecta.  Many resources I have read, consider it a children’s disease, because most people suffering from it, don’t live to become an adult.  It is apparent that Lurdes has one of the types that allow her body to sustain itself into adulthood, thankfully.  But it has rendered her entire body deformed, her legs are not usable and all her bones in are fragile and deformed causing her constant pain.

Even through these physical trials Lurdes keeps an upbeat attitude and is a joy to spend time with.  Leader organized jewelry lessons for her with a teacher in Cusco and now Lurdes has begun her own small business making and selling bracelets.  She is highly motivated to learn: we have spent hours working on reading Spanish, speaking English and studying geography.  She has spent the last year learning voraciously and trying to make up for lost time. 

I spend a lot of time wondering if the time and money poured into non-profit work is worth it; sometimes the work is not sustainable and may do more damage than good by making whole societies dependant on a potentially transitory organization. However, in the case of Lurdes, I fully believe in the work that we are doing.  The goal of our work with Lurdes is to give her the tools to become an independent, free-thinking and capable woman, making our presence obsolete.  Together Mysmallhelp and Awamaki Health are working to find a private tutor for Lurdes to further her education, give her more opportunities to venture into town to increase her social ties to other Peruvians and overall empower her to hold the reins of her own life.  If I don’t do anything else productive by my work here, I will be happy to have been a part of the positive force in Lurdes’ life. 

Be well friends.  More stories to come soon.

gusty

An aside: (please note that I’m not trying to pressure anyone with this blog post, this post is for your reading pleasure and to update you on my life here in Ollanta, but I anticipate that some of my friends may be interested in further information and/or supporting this cause.  So, for more bio info on Lurdes or to donate to help Leander find her schooling check out: http://www.mysmallhelp.org/support_disable_person_in_peru.php

Or go to http://www.awamaki.org/donate and donate to the health program and specify that funds should go to Lurdes).  

Colca Canyon

I usually try to steer clear of popular tourist destinations; I’m not a huge fan of sharing my “unique travel experience” with a bunch of Ex-Officio clad, guidebook toting tourists.  However, after spending 5 years making a living selling Ex-Officio clothing and guidebooks, and at times being one of those ostentatious tourists myself, I have to sheepishly admit, that many popular destinations are popular for good reason and are worth a visit. 

The widely-visited Colca canyon made that list for me.  At 4,160 meters deep, measured from the tall peaks that surround the canyon-proper down to Colca river, the Colca canyon is touted by locals to the be the deepest canyon in the world: twice as deep as the Grand Canyon.  The respectively low-angel canyon walls give is a look entirely different than the Grand and I can’t fathom doing a just comparison.  My opinion: you really have to see both; their unique environs give the Ex-officio or Patagucci clad interloper distinctive and awe-inspiring experiences.

The week and a half before leaving for the Colca canyon, one of Peru’s famous GI gatecrashers relegated Alex to bed, bathroom and small, slow outings into town.  Between my Awamaki duties I would come home, and congratulating my iron-clad stomach and intestines try to be as supportive as possible.  Thanks to Cipro, Alex was mostly recovered, although almost 10 lbs lighter by the time we wanted to leave for the canyon. 

Thursday morning came around and we were ready for our adventure:

Tickets for the overnight bus to Arequipa purchased?  Check.

Rain clothes packed? Check.

Backpacking supplies packed? Check. 

Everyone in good health? Check.

I headed out for one last home visit before leaving for Cusco to do grocery shopping and catch our bus.  Walking back from Rumira my stomach started to grumble.  Maybe that breakfast smoothie was a little too much?  It started doing a jig. I walked a little faster and tried not to think about.  It started yelling at me.  I made it home just in the nick of time.  Alex wonders if I’m feeling good enough for an overnight bus?  Hopefully it will pass, I’d like continue on with our plans. And if I just don’t eat until we reach our destination, how bad can it really be? If there is nothing in me, then there is nothing to come out.

In Cusco, while Alex grocery shopped for our trip, watched our packs and dealt with the last minute details, I introduced myself to the bathroom in the supermarket, restaurant and the bus station.  In an optimistic mood, I boarded the overnight bus.  Without any food, my stomach was calming down and in my excitement for adventure I didn’t even notice the fever starting to come on.

An hour into the ride, the American action movie dubbed over in Spanish and playing at top volume started to irritate me.  Everything was uncomfortable and my head hurt.  I was hot and then cold and was reassessing the comfort of the seats.  I put some ear-plugs in and started to doze off. I woke up hyperventilating and incredulously realized that in addition to everything else, I was motion-sick.  I spent the next 5 hours racing back and forth from my seat in the humid and hot passenger section to the tiny, chilly and wet bathroom.  Most of the time was spent huddled on the urine soaked bathroom floor dry-heaving into the toilet.  So much for those iron-clad internal organs. 

Half-way through the trip, Alex touched my arm and realizing that I was burning with fever, ordered me to take a Tylenol.  After balking at the idea of introducing anything into my stomach I obliged and less than an hour later fell into a fitful sleep, the Tylenol tempered my fever and in turn made me less susceptible to the bus’ motion.  Have I mentioned, in this blog post yet, my impeccable taste in travelling companions?

We made it to Arequipa and only had an hour to wait until boarding our next bus.  The bumpy, sinuous ride to Chivay was uneventful and the scenery captivating.  After being used to the rain-soaked Ollanta, southern Peru was like a new world.  To the left, a train track winding down and around the valley and then up the rolling hills reminded me of a western movie.  To the right, rock faces gave way to barren-looking flat land that butted up to imposing snow-capped mountains. 

Like most day buses, there was no working bathroom.  The ride was scheduled to take 3 hours; it took 4.  Another passenger, a man, peed in a plastic bag and tossed it out the window.  I decided to hold it. 

After a 4 hour wait in the bus station, another 3 hour, turned 4 hour bus ride took us from Chivy to the little town of Cabanaconde, the jumping off point for our Colca hike.  We arrived at the hostel Pachamama at 7:30pm on 2/25. We had left Ollanta around 3 pm on 2/24.  I hadn’t eaten anything, drank very little and felt like hell warmed over the entire way.  Our little room at Pachamama was a little piece of heaven to me.  We both slept for 12 hours and woke the next morning ready to hike, or really, ready for anything that wasn’t a bus. 

The photos from the top of the canyon don’t do it justice (but check them out on my fb anyway).  I stood there; 3,000 feet above the river, watching condors soaring below me but still high above the ground themselves.  The dry dirt crunching under my sandals made me feel like a part of the panorama and the low floating clouds that almost kissed my head were just the lid on the landscape.  It was like the whole scene could have been bottled up and sold in the dairy section.  But it would be a purchase that was impossible to imbibe all at once. 

We hiked the 3,000+ feet down to the river by noon.  At the bridge we were surprised to encounter a man waiting to check tourist passes and keep count of those passing through.  We were numbers 33 and 34.  Unexpected, we had only seen one other tourist during our hike that morning.  The morning’s exertion had convinced my body that food was a not an opponent to be rejected with force but a supporter to be welcomed, though still trepidatiously.  Good timing, for after lunch we ascended 1,500 feet before our path flattened to parallel the river. 

We hiked through thick, overgrown groves of trees; a stark difference from the arid landscape I had stood in, while peering down into the canyon just that morning.  We hiked past small villages, where every other house seemed to be a make-shift hostel; but surprisingly, we encountered very few people.  We hiked with each-other in rapt conversation and we hiked alone with only our thoughts. 

It wasn’t dark yet, but the incan terraces made a perfect camping spot and we turned in early, exhausted from our day of hiking and the previous day’s travel. 

The following morning we hiked back down to the river.  Venturing just off the beaten track we followed a small stream up just below its source and spent a lovely hour relaxing in the grass and bathing in the stream before setting off back up the canyon into town. 

The remainder of our trip and return journey to Ollanta was delightfully uneventful.  I am proud to say though it did include an obscene amount of eating on my part, a compensation for the circumstances of the initial voyage.   

Some Videos on Awamaki's work-check 'em out!

Copied from my FB posts, sorry for the redundancy for those of you that check both:


If any of you follow my blog, this is the young man i mentioned in my first post from Peru. The video was made in an attempt to convince apple to donate therapeutic ipods/ipads (they actually have therapeutic apps!) to Awamaki for Alex and some of our other patients that can benefit from PT.  While I still wonder about the sustainability of some of our work (as I mentioned in that blog post), I have been convinced of the utility of PT for the CP patients here.  Another CP patient that I have been visiting and working with has been benefiting from PT and similar interventions for a number of years and his quality of life is much higher than what you see in this video (Alex just started PT a few months ago).  As I posed in spanish as a comment under my last FB post: our programs aren't perfect, but we are trying.  Thanks all for your great comments and support!
http://vimeo.com/21416707

This fun, short video is on Awamaki's weekly chocolatadas in the local health clinics. Trish did a great job putting the video together and yours truly has a little face time.http://vimeo.com/21378817

some thoughts and stories on the day...

Alex has gone back to the states and I am once again flying solo in Peru.  Surprisingly enough, I’ve been dealing with the contrast of having constant interpersonal interactions for five weeks straight, to a significant amount of alone time very well.  Now I have an excess of time for work, reading, running and writing.  Hopefully the extra time will translate into some amazing blog posts for y’all.  For now I’m going to leave you with this update until I can pull together descriptions of our backpacking trips in the (understandably) popular Colca Canyon and to the amazing, not yet tourist-ified, impressive and burly Choquequirao. 

Worth noting, in the interim however, is that I made my first two sarcastic jokes in Spanish this evening, of which I’m quite proud.  I spent the last month communicating primarily in English and have made my personal goal for the next three months, besides eating as many mangos as possible, is to work on my lagging Spanish language skills. 

Luckily, I was given a wonderful opportunity for lingual growth today.  It was my host brother Noel’s birthday, so I accompanied my host family to Noel and his wife’s house in a neighboring town.  There’s nothing like a group of drunk, happy people, with whom I’m comfortable (and a little alcohol for myself) to facilitate language learning.  

I’d also like to share a story on one of the two patient visits that I did today.  I haven’t blogged much about the work that I’m doing with Awamaki, but I would like to begin and today would be a great introduction to one of the individuals that I visit on a regular basis. 

My first visit of the day was to N, a wonderful, slightly eccentric elderly lady who has no use of her legs and limited hearing.  This spunky woman whose eyes have a mischievous sparkle speaks a semi-coherent mixture of Quechua and Spanish and ignores the topics I bring up that she doesn’t feel like talking about (where her hearing disability comes in handy for her).  This quality of hers, paired with my poor Spanish skills and non-existent Quechua skills make for interesting interactions.  Although, I must note, we usually spend 3-4 hours a week in rapt conversation and never seem to lack for discussion topics.   Her favorite subjects to discuss: my ratty hair which she really wants to brush, my holey jeans which she really wants to patch, my skinny figure which she wishes me to enhance, her family (topics good, fun, sad and bad), my family, her physical ailments and the sex-related jokes that she tells just so she can watch my reaction.

N is forever trying to feed me when I visit.  Today I arrived around 9 am, just after I finished eating my breakfast at home.  She was in the process of eating her breakfast, soup, and of course offered me some.  I declined, but when she offered me matte (usually how coca tea is referred to here) I happily accepted.  A little white cup was shaken dry and she scooted herself closer to the teapot sitting on the wood-powered stove in the corner of her tiny, one bedroom, dirt-floored hut.  I couldn’t help but notice little stones filling the clean-ish white mug as she poured in the green-tinted water.  I thought that maybe the tea was already steeping in the pot; hopeful thoughts to make myself feel better about the water’s appearance.  She then placed a significant amount of her small stash of instant coffee into my cup with her dirt-covered fingers.  I watched, cringing slightly as she selected two heaping spoonfuls from her sugar bowl, stirred, tasted, and went back for another large spoonful of sugar.  The resulting concoction sat in my lap for a few minutes as I trepidatiously sniffed the hot black-ish liquid waiting for it to cool.  I managed a few sips before needing a break.  I love sweets, but saturated sugar water with a bitter coffee aftertaste isn’t my cup of tea.  I did the best I could while N looked on, practically heckling me to drink faster so she could make herself tea since that was the only cup she owned. 

I drank about a quarter of it before telling her that I was incapable of drinking the rest quickly and she should help herself because I have coffee at home. She proceeded to show me how it was done by downing the rest in less than 15 seconds. 

A Clandestine Trip to the Ollantaytambo Fortress (Inca ruins)

Usually a S./ 70 entrance fee, the Ollantaytambo ruins are relatively easy to sneak into, especially under the cover of darkness.  While I haven’t been there during the day for a true comparison, the perspective that the scene offered me was much different and preferable to the one that would have included hordes of water-bottle and guidebook touting tourists: 

Grey-blue clouds cover all but the most tenacious of the moon’s rays and those that do emerge are tinted with the colors of their would-be captors. 

Across the valley to the east, two long strips of clouds ride along the edge of the mountains, just above where the now invisible ruins of the Incan storage buildings lay.

Just above us on the hillside, a few puffs of clouds hang just over the highest visible ruins. 

The clouds to the south and across the river hang like chunks on the mountainside.  Under which, I know my favorite running path lies.  Just imagining its existence is a stretch, the shapes so foreign and foreboding in the dark. 

The valley to the west, where I will be working in a health clinic bright and early tomorrow morning, is filled with thick and heavy clouds.  Like a stew simmering overnight, waiting for the morning to revel its true flavor.

A thin mist descends on us as we stand in the temple of the sun.

Such a juxtaposition, the ancient Incan ruins in which I’m standing, a solid and pragmatic reminder of a foreign society that now lives only in history books and murals; while looking upon a modern city with cars moving along the cobble-stone streets, people walking home from the bars and electric street lamps lighting the way for all. 

Sanding in what I am told is the religious center of this ancient city I am reminded of this morning’s catholic mass, held in honor or Awamaki’s Anniversary.  Throughout time, culture and geography us humans always seem to find the common thread of looking for something larger than ourselves.  God, god, Gods, gods, myths and stories, Science. Why is this?  To interject more meaning into our short witness of this world?  To make ourselves feel better about our inadequacies? Worse? To control? To relinquish control?  Because there is some truth in all the myths and stories? Or do we just wish it to be true?  I don’t think I will ever know. 

Many of my activities make me feel small in place: be it comparing my life to a vast plain, huge mountain, the stars or the universe.  Tonight, I feel small in time.  History is humbling. 

If you are interested here is a link to the wiki article on Ollantaytambo, which has some info on the inca ruins: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ollantaytambo

if you don't mind ads, this page actually has better info on the ruins/fortress: http://www.destination360.com/south-america/peru/ollantaytambo

Alex and Chelsea’s Lares Hot Springs Weekend Adventure

The hot springs just outside the town of Lares is a place I heard about when I first arrived in Ollanta.  I instantly put it on my mental to check out list.  When I attempted to recruit others to join me one weekend, in addition to suggesting I hire a guide, the long term volunteers suggested I wait to tackle the trek until after the rainy season.

But hey, I’m from the Pacific Northwest, I can handle rain. And really, how hard can finding the trail really be?  Alex entertains similar sentiments and is usually willing to get in over his head on adventures, just like me.  The perfect companion for such a trip, I’ll recruit him upon his arrival. 

He didn’t disappoint.  In the week after arriving, while I was working, he shopped, packed, asked others for advice on route-finding and studied topo maps. 

Making our way up and across the hills above Patacancha, I feel that we have actually transported ourselves from our previous life, even more than when we’re in town.  For all the outdoor sports I enthuse over, I usually travel for the people and the culture.  Give or take some details, mountains are mountains and grass is grass and 14,000 feet is 14,000 feet no matter if you are north or south of the equator.  But here I am, in a natural setting so different from any of the other expeditions I have been on in the states or elsewhere. 

Smoke is rising off the paha roof from each of the adobe huts we pass.  The llamas look at us foreigners with curiosity and suspicion as their newborns stand on shaky legs to nurse.  We pull out my ipod and view the picture of the topo map Alex snapped before leaving, the best we could do with limited access to maps of the area.  A local man seems to be waving us upwards.  A suggestion we decide not to take in lieu of following our interpretation of the directions, a suggestion that we later learn we should have taken. 

The chromium green round clumps of spongy grass make me feel like, with each step, I’m bouncing on mini-trampolines.  As we ascended the ever-steepening slopes, the spongy clumps give way to a flat star-shaped plant that so tightly hugs the ground it looks and feels like walking on stylized Astroturf.  Water is everywhere.  It isn’t raining. Yet.  But the raging streams, overflowing ponds, and seeping ground remind us that we are, in fact hiking in the time of the rain as my host family keeps reminding me.  Alex says the sky here leaks.

After four hours of hiking we arrive at the 14,500’ abra (pass), Ipsayjasa.  The heavy mist wets our jackets, but it still isn’t raining.  Yet.  Even with the visual limitations, the view is amazing with laguna Ispaycoeha behind us and in front, numerous snow-melt streams so steep one cannot say where river transitions to waterfall. 

We descend a few hundred feet and reward ourselves with a fabulous picnic.  I once again congratulate myself on my choice of backpacking companions as we feast on homemade bread with avocado, apples and trader joe’s almond butter with flax seeds (an aside on nut butters: they are nearly impossible to obtain here.  Alex brought me two containers from trader joes, I also received a number of Justin’s pb packets sent down in a care package from some of my amazing boulder friends.  I wish I could adequately communicate the joy that those treats have brought me).

We begin hiking again.  Now the grasses have turned to mud.  I give up on trying to keep the inside of my boots dry.  My white pants are brown with mud half-way up to my knees.  We descend through a marshy valley, maybe a mile wide, home to numerous sheep, alpaca, llamas, horses and sprinkled with currently inhabited adobe huts built next to abandoned Incan ruins. 

We didn’t even notice when it started to drizzle.  Already wet from the mist and mud, it doesn’t make much of a difference anyway.

After two and a half hours the valley we were descending poured into a perpendicular valley, deeper, narrower, and more obviously carved by ancient glaciers.  Magnificent, angry rivers morph into waterfalls and tumble 3000’ from their high hanging tributaries to the valley floor below.  Our lungs rejoice and our knees brace for another 1500’ of down-grade. 

By now the drizzle has graduated to rain.  We give up our slippery path for a gravel road when we reach the quiet town of Huacahausi.  I hear that cars travel this road, but I have my doubts as we traverse the third river at least 2 feet deep, carving its own path across the road. 

The valley is breathtaking, but we barely notice the ruins and the vistas.  I think it is safe to say it is pouring rain now. We have been hiking for 8 hours.  I feel mud between my toes every step I take, inside my boots.  When we stop to eat, my hands don’t work.  I didn’t realize that it was that cold.  Conversation early that morning was so easy.  I decide to orally review my Spanish lesson from the previous day. Bad idea, now we are cold, tired, hungry and cranky with each-other. 

At 4 pm, nine hours after leaving Patacancha and 11 hours after leaving our beds, we spy manicured grounds: fancy rockwork, beautiful flowers and pools of water with smoke rising off and mixing in with the mist. 

We have arrived. Situated next to a raging set of class five rapids, the Lares hot springs park is a paradise.  There are six pools of differing temperatures and shapes.  The water feeding the side by side showers situated next to the pools must come from different sources; their temperatures vary along with the color and texture of the residue left by their mineral deposits and thermophile algae growth.  The manicured grounds include grassy spots perfect for tents.

The minute our sodden clothes are replaced by our swimsuits and our achy feet are submerged in the hot water, our bad moods dissolve along with the sweat and mud. 

After enjoying the baths a bit more Sunday morning we hike with all our supplies down into Lares proper to find breakfast and catch the bus that will take us home.  While skirting around a fresh mudslide in the road, we pass a woman that asks us if we are planning on taking the bus to Calca.  When we reply yes she hollers some information about the trip over her shoulder.  Alex and I muse as we continue walking: did she say there wasn’t a bus until 1pm, or did she say there was no bus at 1pm.

We arrive in the tiny town of Lares and easily find breakfast of chicken soup, but struggle to find reliable information about the bus.  I decide that it would be wise to wait until 1pm, when the bus is scheduled to arrive, before becoming worried about our return trip and my work schedule for the following morning.  While waiting, a huge ruckus from the other side of town ensues: a series of rockslides slamming into metal sides of the community market; a second reminder of the dangers of traveling on steep roads during the wet season.

My relief is tangible when a combi shows up promptly at 1pm.  We shoulder our packs and prep for our ensuing, potentially harrowing drive.  The combi driver tells us and the growing crowd that the bridge between Lares and Calca has been washed out and the drive is impossibly dangerous.  He will not be going.  Local woman implore him that they must go to meet their husbands whom they haven’t seen in weeks.  The driver is unmoved and he doesn’t even deign to answer Alex’s questions.

We look at each other and know what must be done.  Wet clothes, muddy shoes and tired shoulders are put back into action.  We stop by the closet grocery store, stock up and start hiking back towards the mountains between Lares and Patacancha.  This hike is to be a bit different.  On our way into Lares, we descended 1500’ more than we ascended and we benefited from a taxi ride between Ollanta and Patachanca, cutting three hours off of our hike yesterday.  It is not guaranteed that we will find a ride on the return, but the extra elevation is.  We start hiking at 1:30 pm.  I have a meeting at 3pm tomorrow in Ollanta.  That is our goal. 

Our spirits are much higher as we climb the road between Lares and Huacahuasi, our attitudes much like they were Saturday morning when we set out.  I can’t help but wonder where that barometer will be after 9 hours of hiking. It is raining non-stop.

Our impromptu campsite near the top of the steep glacial-cut valley teases us with spectacular waterfalls that are barely visible through the fog.  We eat our sardines and avocado and fall fast asleep.  I wake in the middle of the night from a dream (or was it a nightmare?) of fire-fighters pointing their hoses full blast at my tent.  Right, I remember where I am.  Not a dream, it is the rain in full force.  I lay awake awash partly from the altitude, partly wondering if my tent can handle the Peruvian wet season. 

By 6:30a the rain has abated and I open the vestibule flap to a scene of waterfalls crashing into the valley below us, Incan ruins on the hillside beside us, snow-capped peaks above us, and curious llamas peering into our tent as we gaze out.  It is valentine’s day morning and there is no other place I’d rather be, and no other person with whom I’d rather be sharing it. 

I trade my warm and dry long underwear for my wet clothes shoulder my bag and head for the abra Ipsayjasa.  It leaks rain most of the day.  We arrive in Patachanca at 1 pm. We can make it to Ollanta in time if we hike straight through.  But both of us are hurting, wet and tired.  We stop by the Awamaki sponsored weaving center in town and find to our delight, three volunteers, about to return to Ollanta, who have room in their cab.  Before leaving for home we are welcomed by a local family and given hot tea, rice and a fried egg.  I want to embrace them to show my gratitude, but that would just serve in making someone else muddy and wet too. 

Our cab ride to town was not without incidence.  The wet spell that had destroyed the road to Lares had affected this road as well.  We pass several small landslides that were not present two days before and marvel at the raging river which has now superseded its banks and flooded the road in spots.  Halfway through we stop behind two other combis stuck in a knee-deep mud-pit/landslide and it took 4 people including Alex and I, to push the stuck combi through while avoiding the 400’ cliff to the valley floor.  

We walk into our homestay, mama grabs me in a tight embrace and picks me up.  Twice. 

I was so worried about you.  And so was my husband.  We thought you were sick, lost and in trouble on the mountain. 

The rest of the afternoon she keeps giving me hugs and tells me how happy the family is to have us back.  We are sus hijos tambien, her children also.  I realize that for the duration of my stay in Ollanta, I will live with this host family.  Most volunteers rent their own houses for a fraction of the cost of a homestay.  But this is my Peruvian family; I can’t leave. 

Mama heats up water for us to bathe.  The first time here I’ve been a diva enough to ask for hot bath water.  I think we deserve it this time. 

Photos from our adventure can be accessed on my FB site (once my internet connection is fast enough to support an upload, hopefully soon).  Follow the link from my last post if you are interested.