While anticipating the arrival of my car-mates, I had my first realization that in the coming days my reality was to shift into another cultural, historical, and geographical realm. After an initial onslaught of anxiety, I quickly reassured myself that I was in the right place. One-by-one my co-adventurers arrived; all but one. As we waited in the modern gray minivan taxi in the Santiago Barrio of Cuzco, I reviewed just how all of the other passengers had "reviewed" me. Not that I should have been surprised by the double and triple take effect, or the completely committed deer-in-headlights stare, for I had grown accustomed to this sort of shock reaction to my gringo presence by many Peruvians throughout my travels; this is something to be expected and accepted. In truth, any role-reversal would have elicited the same reaction on my behalf.
I finished up my analytical session just as the last co-passenger arrived. The thirty-something man promptly piled into the van and sat smack-dab in between me and my former neighbor with whom I had chatted for a brief moment about the usual stuff: country of origin, reason for traveling, destination of current venture, and profession. After our physical splitting-up, our conversational schism followed soon after. Our new neighbor was introverted, at least for the onset of the journey, and this would put a silent damper on the smoothness of conversation formerly enjoyed by my opposite window mate and I. It would also provide an opportunity to view the incredible landscape that would follow on the road ahead. Luckily for me, this was just what I wanted, for it allowed me to take in the landscape and memorize all of its climbs, falls, twists and turns throughout the entirety of this region of Cuzco and the latter part of our travels into the jungle areas of Quillabamba, the starting point of my "circle in the jungle."
As the first signs of lushness entered into view, I finally yielded to the idea of this new and wild adventure that I was in the middle of! I entered a space of even deeper observance at this point, only paying attention to the sights and images that passed before my eyes. Banana-looking trees and other big-leafed tropical shrubbery were my first cues of what was to be our grand descent into the unknown. Interestingly enough, as our journey took us further into the abyss, the light of day faded away. Now I only looked forward, through the windshield, and it was with the help of the mini van's trusty headlights that I would catch brief glimpses of this strange place.
At first, dirt roads and jungle plants were all that abounded. After that, a random shack would appear, always with a person standing leisurely inside the frame of the front door. This phenomenon continued as the trip went on eventually expanding to the presence of various shacks, some with signs, others bare. Our minivan would stop from time to time to allow the small herds of children to hastily yet reluctantly clear our path. A soccer ball, or some form of ball, would always poke its way into view as the stampeding kids retreated to the side of the road.
After many hours of roughly the same scenes and a continuity of visuals which yielded a welcoming comfort in such a strange land, we finally made entry into our destination city. With a quick "heads-up" from my new friend on the other side of the van, I grew immediately tense given the impending uncertainty and break in my comfort zone; scary novelty was on the horizon.
It was still dark when we pulled up to the "van-stop" in what appeared to be the main plaza. Single-story structures, mostly restaurants, stores, and Internet cafes marked the side-to-side make-up of the small jungle city blocks. My friend immediately asked, "Do you have a place to stay?" I responded affirmatively, while thanking him for his concern and offer.
Upon my arrival to the hostel, I anticipated taking a cool shower in order to rinse the long-collection of sweat off of me. After exchanging briefly with the front desk girl, I promptly claimed my room, took a shower, and relaxed with my journal to note the important points of this day and the day to come. While comfortably writing about the hazardous road coming from Cuzco to Quillabamba, I spotted a large cockroach apparently playing hide-and-go-seek with me. I instantly shrilled at the sight of the jet black-helmeted soldier, for I am unaccustomed to the bug and don't sit well with them neither marching nor standing "at ease." Not only do I not sit well with them, I don't sleep well with them either! In a full-tucked burrito, with sheets as my thick tortilla of safety, I courageously attempted to sleep. Notwithstanding this futile technique, it was only at the point where I allowed the cucharrachas to be, was I really able to catch some "Zs." Luckily for me, I was on vacation and I could temporally afford to sleep in.
"Wow," I exclaimed to the kid's dry and untrusting look upon view of the impassioned gringo before his eyes, "tengo que ir ahorita (I have to leave right now)!" I thanked him for his services, I left my large jacket with him for storage promising him a return within the next few days, and I was enthusiastically on my way to the plaza.
The brief rickshaw ride through the grid-shaped streets of beautiful Quillabamba was wonderful. I saw impressive lush green hills in the distance mark the perimeter of the mountain-encompassed jungle city and the typical Peruvian jungle city architecture: brick buildings and slanted plexy-glass and metal roofs. The Quillabambanos were wearing less clothes which was reflective of the humid and hot climate.
In the plaza I quickly located the taxi to Vitcos. I spoke with the driver and waited momentarily for a few more passengers for the colectivo taxi ride. During my wait for the others, I observed the activities going on in the leisurely-active plaza. Once I got a few breaths and views in, the last necessary passengers had arrived and we were off!
The road to Vitcos was almost as exciting as any adventure scene out of an Indian Jones movie: jungle atmosphere, dirt and rocky road, river paralleling the road, bumpy ride due to worn car shocks and struts, and unknown people and destinations. As we stretched further into the Vilcabamba region, I noticed that much of terrain didn't change from what I just described. At about the quarter-way-point of the two-hour venture, we picked up a woman on the side of the road. Given that no more seats were available other than the trunk of the Toyota wagon, I offered my back window seat to the goods-toting local woman. Following her short-lived and futile plea to take the trunk seat herself, I assumed my new place in the biggest and, as I was to find out, the bumpiest space in all of the taxi.
Upon arriving in Huancacalle I was confused: Where were we? Why were we stopping here? Was this the end of the road? Nobody ever showed me pictures (nor could I find many) of this place prior to this trip. Not much info was available on this semi-rural area. In that instant, I just needed to know. I attempted to ask the driver, but he immediately insisted that all was well. And, after a short pause on my part, I agreed to trust him and exited the car. My co-passenger exited and promptly left the area while moving onto his specific destination. The hasty taxi-driver handed me my bag and left in a jiffy, perhaps in pursuit of other clients who were wanting to go in the opposite direction back toward Quillabamba.
Upon approaching him I said, "Buenas tardes, Senor." He replied with a kind "Bienvenidos (Welcome)" and motioned for me to enter through the low doorway to the typical Andean construction (shack-like made of dung-bricks). I accepted and we entered his store silently. Inside the dimly-lit store, with weight of feet causing cracking wood sounds, I found the room split into two parts: the right side had products and rations ranging anywhere from cookies to crackers, to water, to rice and sugar; on the left side there were tables and benches which formed the "restaurant" side of the establishment.
Within seconds, the man inquired as to my plans for hiking in the days to come. I told him that I wanted to go to Vilcabamba. He promptly told me that Vilcabamba was five days hike away. He led me to the map on his wall; it was old and looked like a far-fetching approximation at best. He explained to me the days that it would take to complete the "circle" (which was obviously a simple depiction of this squiggly-circle at best trip). It would be five days with the assistance of a muleteer and mule which (would carry all of the supplies) plus two more days to finish the trip at the end-point at Quillabamba. The circular journey.
The predicted time-frame was quickly put to rest when a mid-aged woman entered the store. This woman, more light-complected that the others in the area but obviously a local due to her demeanor and dress, responded that the trip to Vilcabamba would be just four days. Arrival to the site would be on the fourth day. I tended to believe this woman since, as Juan told me during her introduction, she had a lifetime of experience hiking in this area. I could see the manifested form of her experience in her appearance: her weathered face, wrinkled skin coming from her eyes, and, as I would later find out, in her hand shake; it was firm and unmistakeably assured and confident.
A moment or two after the muleteer, or arriero, left, I told Juan I wanted to see the other ruins in the immediate area. He told me that he'd send for his nephew right away in order to take me to them.
We went out to the area behind the town "strip." A panorama of green vividness graced our afternoon in the form of grass, trees, and mountains. Chacras extended out in all directions which gave me an unmistakable inkling and idea of the shifting terrain and trail locations. Huancacalle, as I was to see now and much later on, was the main "hub" from which trails extended out in all directions in the Cuzco Region. From Huancacalle, one could reach Vilcabamba (my current trek), Choquequirao (the "sister site" of Machu Picchu), and Machu Picchu, among many others. Three of the most blessed ruin sites affiliated with the Incas were available within days from this very spot; I was just beginning to see the absolute connectional magic of this place!
During our initial and leisurely walk to the sites around Vitcos (Huancacalle), Eddy and I cruised along a trail recently and currently graced by a light sprinkle which continued variably throughout the afternoon. First we came upon an old colonial home which had been overtaken by plants and other growth, most notably moss (given the extra moisture in this high jungle area). Seeing this more recent multi-century ruin was very exciting for me given my unrivaled interest in the history of this area. As for the other sites we would come upon, I had a couple of different books on the area in order to prepare me for this excursion. One of those books, "The Conquest of the Incas," by John Hemming, the classic on the topic, talks extensively about the retreats of the Incas in all of this very area. I knew from that book that I would be coming upon a couple of very important sites in the immediate area. One of those sites, Rosaspata, the other, the "White Rock." I knew that this area was more-or-less the door way into the further reaches of the retreated empire; it was a place where numerous Spanish expeditions attempted to gain entry into the last realm of the Incas; in most cases unsuccessfully. Rosaspata would be the first site that we would wind our way towards.
Prior to reaching the grounds of Rosaspata, Eddy located a few of his friends on duty as security guards to the site. These three machete-toting guards would've been deathly-intimidating to anybody not already affiliated with them. But, luckily for me, I had an inside connection to this trio. I said hello with a tinge of fear very much present; they, probably just as unsure of me as I of them, gave me the same greeting. We visited for a moment and then continued on.
After completing our brief tour of Rosaspata, we moved on to the various andenes and terraces that eventually lead up to the White Rock. This next venture was especially exciting given my familiarity with its destination and history. Hugh Thomson's book entitled "White Rock" gives an intimate view into this entire area (all of its roads, trails, sites, and people, among other things). Once we neared the rock, the formerly cloud-crowded skies began to clear. It was as if a wet towel was pulled from the coverage of all of the trees and plants leaving a misty residual that added an element of magic to our jaunt. One could feel the presence of the rock over the upcoming hillside.
After climbing around the White Rock for about an hour or so it was finally time to move on. In truth, I could have stayed on this rock all night; the views from it were incredible. We decided to move on while keeping in mind the numerous sights and sites that we would be seeing in the coming days.
On our way back to Huancacalle we crossed paths with Eddy's mother who had one of her cows with her. I was introduced, we spoke briefly, and then we returned to Juan's store/restaurant/tourist center.
On our way back to Huancacalle we crossed paths with Eddy's mother who had one of her cows with her. I was introduced, we spoke briefly, and then we returned to Juan's store/restaurant/tourist center.
When I asked Eddy how long the trail would be to Vilcabamba he gave me a different view of it. He told me that it would only take three days to complete. But he told me that only without the help of mules would this estimation be possible, given the slow-going pace of any expedition with mules. When I approached Juan and offered him this news he gave both Eddy and I a perplexed look. He promptly asked Eddy if this was true. Eddy announced his confidence with this projected time-frame. Juan continued in uncertainty, never really explicitly saying his thoughts one way or the other. From all of this disperse confusion, I thought I'd just let it go.
Eddy and I agreed to a time frame and compensation: five days and $150 (covering the entire circle trip back); a fair rate given his inexperience on this particular trek. My guide had only traveled the road to Vilcabamba once before, a year ago with a trio of gringo hikers. With keeping his unfamiliarity in mind, I decided it would be best for me to make sure that we were well prepared for the following day's commencement. So before going to bed, Eddy, Juan, and I double and triple-checked the necessity list. By "checked" I mean we (or I, in reality) bought materials such as: crackers, water, coffee, wafers, chocolate, rice, and yucca. I purchased batteries and a flashlight for our nights and early mornings, and matches and bug repellent, two must-haves on any trek. In addition to all of these necessities, there was one purchase that stood out from all of the others. This supposedly vital complement to coffee or tea still seems to me to be unnecessary to this day as I write this article (some two-and-a-half years later!). A whole pound plus of sugar in-the-raw is this special something. I then, as today, questioned this demand made so fervently by both Juan and Eddy. When I voiced my conflictive case to them both, Juan assuredly replied, "you'll both be needing this as you go; it's indispensable!" After having asserted that I would not be consuming any extra sugar from the stash, Juan confidently affirmed, "Well then Eddy will be eating all of it!" I figured, given the straight-faces of them both, that Eddy must have had a sweet fetish with this legal contemporary of crack, and that if this were not the case, that at some point we could potentially sell it or trade it to any fiends or friends in the further reaches of the jungle!
For a view of the circular journey
We were off! Eddy and I took a cab to the top of a mountain on the perimeter of the Huancacalle/Vitcos basin. From there we unloaded and immediately gazed in the far direction of the unfolding and expanding landscape which fell into the distance. The view was spectacular from this point: a long mountain valley descending to further and invisible reaches, deep blue sky with varied clouds, and no apparent trail marking the way to our destination. To the response of my last observation, Eddy intuitively informed me that we would have to blaze our own trail while staying true to the contours of the mountain-scape.
Our first detour came early-on, probably within the first ten minutes; we would have to bi-pass a collapsed mountain/mudslide area by climbing just above the mud area onto a slightly dried area. Even though we avoided the wet and concomitant dangerous dirt, we nevertheless were still walking on steep and potentially hazardous land, with the prospects of another slide still quite possible. I gave a much deserved exhale of relief after having moved through this section of precarious trail. Eddy turned to me as we celebrated our achievement with a high-five. From there, we continued to move forth down the incline of faint trail that now appeared beneath our feet. Eddy and I maneuvered our line through the mix of stones, loose dirt and mud, and short grass that comprised the stuff of this descending mountain chute.
We continued on the trail for a couple miles more. Through varying open hillsides and wooded areas. My ankle felt good when I kept going, so the idea became, "just keep moving!" After about two hours of a smooth pace, we came upon our first pit-stop of the day, an impressive group of complexes made of bamboo and wood. Now, the rain was coming down vigorously and we gratefully took advantage this timely, wonderful offering. We entered the shelter and I quickly learned that this was no regular camping stop.
Inside, Eddy and I sat down at one of the many tables in the first of five walkway-connected circular structures. While resting and waiting for the operators of the establishment to come, we listened to the sound of the rain drops fall solidly upon the well-built cone-shaped rooftops above. It was an immensely calming activity, so much so, that I quickly entered into a meditative state just after the initial moments of pause.
Soon after, a twenty-something local woman approached our table. My immediate observance of the woman was of being shocked by the incredible air of calmness she exuded. We exchanged salutations and she promptly offered us chicken soup and water. Eddy and I graciously agreed; we were enjoying a delectable home-made soup in no time! The woman sat down with both of us and, with continued calmness, shared her version of the history of this quite amazing establishment.
This well-devised and constructed network of circular structures was actually built by a team of Franciscan missionaries from Italy and local Peruvians. It coupled as a school for the poorest-of-poor children in the area and a campamiento for tourists and passersby to the area. Donations were optional, with the proceeds going to support the betterment of the school and complex. As Maria explained all of the various aspects of the mission/school, I couldn't help but be amazed by the vision, leadership, and management of the place. A twenty-something man also joined our table at a certain point.
Andres was a missionary from Milan, Italy, who had been volunteering his time and energy to the mission for two years already. He told us that he loved it and, even though it was at times challenging, that he planned on staying for many years to come. We told our new friends of our plans to go to Vilcabamba. When we asked about how many days it would be until reaching the Inca ruins, Maria and Andres agreed that two days or less would be sufficient time without the use of mules for the trek. Eddy and I looked at each other in surprise to this low time-load estimation, with each of us giving a mirrored smirk of both combined relief and confusion. Relief, in the sense of having to expend less energy, and confusion in that our estimated date-of-arrival continued to fall with each successive inquiry made.
We thanked our gracious friends for their hospitality and we all wished each other well. In my continuing growth of optimism, given our reduced DOA (date-of-arrival) and overall high morale (possibly over-confidence), I decided to leave a liter jug of water at the school; I felt that we would have plenty of water for the rest of the now "shortened" trek, and that for sake of comfort via a lightened-load, the road ahead would be much more manageable. Eddy agreed, and our new friends were grateful for our "gift." We left the mission with clear minds for adventure was on the horizon.
Our double dose of positivity was abruptly squelched when not more than a few steps off the long exit ramp of the mission structure did I again twist my ankle. This time it was due more to the lack of tread on my shoes than to the lack of sole surface-space as in the first episode. After realizing what I had done, I laughed sarcastically and kept on moving so as not to enter the zone of eminent discomfort. Eddy shared my laugh as he watched me move out in front of him, a rare phenomenon. I maintained this fast pace for about a mile while I attempted to ride the cloud of enthusiasm which refreshingly defined our time spent at the mission; I knew if goodness was expected, goodness would surely be in store!
We pushed on through the ever-changing landscape as we entered into an increasingly "jungle-like" climate. Vibrant bushes and trees with almost psychedelic-looking leaves jumped out at us as we moved along the ever-raising canopy of forest. The sound of the river went from faint to fervent just as the soil beneath our feet softened in texture. Eddy was sure of our approaching destination at Buena Vista, the campamiento for the night. Rather than the usual flat and open-spaced campsite prevalent at most Inca road stops, we would be setting up camp on the grounds of a local schoolhouse.
Entering into Vista Alegre I experienced the chilling thought of being attacked by a snake, for we currently made our way through its typical dwelling place: bonafide jungle! This freaky thought was immediately neutralized once I laid eyes on the small buildings present on the school grounds; I hoped for the best in the form of a well-sheltered sleep inside the structure, away from the venom-givers!
Out from the nearest shack stepped a young-looking man probably in his twenties. Juan Luis was the schoolmaster and the only full-time resident on the school ground. He invited Eddy and I into his "studio apartment" for shelter from the rain which had just recently commenced anew. We accepted his kind offer.
Inside the shack we observed the typical layout of most jungle shelters and homes: dirt floor, cook hearth, wood furniture (bed, table, benches), and two-inch open spaces underneath the vertical boards where floor and wall meet. I immediately grew tense, for I understood that those feared companions of mine could slither through at any given moment and surprise me! I put my attention back on Juan Luis, the schoolmaster, as we listened to his story.
He had been the teacher at this school, whose students come from the outlying areas of Vista Alegre, for almost two years. Originally from Cuzco, he found the rural-ness of this area to be unmanageable at times, and the loneliness excruciating. With his girlfriend living back in his hometown he managed to travel back there every other weekend; unfortunately, his partner never dared come out to Vista Alegre for a visit. The next day Juan Luis would commence his long trip to Cuzco at the wee-hour of three o'clock in the morning (or madrugada as they say in Spanish). He offered us his shack to cook dinner, eat, and sleep. The only stipulation being that he must lock-up his home by three the next morning, which meant: us, ass-out!
That night, after Juan Luis had left to sleep at a friend's home, Eddy and I cooked a dinner consisting of yucca, rice, and tuna. As I was to find, this combination of starches by way of the yucca and rice would be almost unmanageable and nearly impossible to swallow; large amounts of water were a must in order to wash the dryness down. Nevertheless, our dinner was tasty, providing us the necessary sustenance after a long day's journey and before the equally long one to come the following day. As for sleep, Eddy took the bed and I took the floor. It wasn't until a few moments later after having tucked myself in to my sleeping bag and extinguishing the candle light that I noticed an impeding factor: just under the vertical wood boards, that formed the walls of the home, there was an open space of three inches showing light through. My heart raced instantly while various images ricocheted through my mind: numerous large snakes slithering their way to my whereabouts, huge bugs and gnarly spiders slowly marching for refuge in the comforts of my warm sleeping bag, and who knows what other odd-shaped and unknown rodent or insect doing their deed with me helplessly involved. I was beginning to understand that I had an intense fear of all of these animals and insects just mentioned, and, most of all, I had a fear of the unknown, the shadows in the wild jungle night.
This fear fight continued throughout the night, and consisted of: tossing and turning, reevaluations of the whereabouts of my enemies, scratching illusory itches, and praying to God, in spite of the unbending onslaughts of Satin, that all would be fine. Truth be known, I was miserable, and my previous confidence of spending months in the jungle (still a dream of mine) to learn all aspects of life there, was fatally being squashed under foot by some unseen monster, namely, my very own fear!
The next morning at three a.m., we got a knock at the door. It was Juan Luis. Eddy and I moved quickly as if knowing the procedure. Once we collected everything, we exited the home; our host locked up shop and was promptly gone, down the road of de-solitude (to Cuzco).
As for us, we sat exhausted on the doorstep watching the morning rain that had just commenced. Luckily, the trusty roof hung over the side of the home just enough so as to keep us dry from the falling wetness. Eddy, having slept much better than I, sat with his sleeping bag hanging over him while dozing off for minutes at a time. I, having given up on the prospect long before, was content with just observing the sounds in this still dark and surely beautiful new domain.
Within twenty minutes or so, we spotted lights bobbing their way in the direction of the trail on which we had come in and on which Juan Luis had gone out. Given our unfamiliarity to the place, we were both a bit tense. And, given the jet black hue of the early morning, it wasn't until the messengers arrived outside Juan Luis' home that we were finally able to view them and subsequently salute them. It was a pair of locals, a man and his small son, who had just arrived after a long night's trip from Huancacalle. We conversed briefly and they cordially invited Eddy and I to their home just up the trail. We agreed, gathered our excesses, and walked with our soon-to-be hosts to their home.
We approached their home after a short climb up the hillside from the river-paralleling trail. Off in the direction of the sun, the new day's light brought to vision the all-encompassing and lush jungle scape. I revelled in the beauty that abounded and was gracious for the invitation into the comforts of our hosts' shelter. In the doorway to the home, we saw, heard, and felt all aspects of a typical farm; the only oddity being that here we were in a cut-out niche in the Peruvian jungle. Chickens and pigs accented the sights and sounds of this lovely home's exterior. The interior, as we were soon to see, was decorated by another kind of "pig."
The herd of cuyes, or guinea pigs, raced around the packed-down dirt floor of the kitchen/dining area of the traditional campesino home. Mixed in with the hysteria were the racing feet of our hosts three small children, visibly excited by both the prospects of the day to come and surely by what their father had brought home (namely, us)! I watched on in amusement to the beauty of it all, for it was pure playful greatness to the start of a truly adventurous day!
We ate bread, drank coffee, and conversed with our new friends. We talked about Vilcabamba, the Vista Alegre community, and various other things. After the sun had sufficiently lit the way, we thanked our gracious hosts, wished them well, and we were off on our journey to Vilcabamba.
Early on, our pace was brisk. The cool and moist air of the early morning jungle formed a welcome start to our day; surely, we would be met by a bit of heat later on. The one thing stunting my complete enjoyment of the trail was my constant mindfulness of snakes lurking; with each step I took, I was aware of this troublesome possibility. Adding to this frightful tension was the omnipresence of jungle trees and their low-hanging branches which often times resemble the body of a snake: windy in shape, agile in movement. I made a mental amends with the snakes and other animals of the area, offering this promise of peace: that as long as I walked this path, that they would steer clear of our route; I meant no harm to them, and asked for the same in return. Regardless of outcome, bite or no bite, Eddy and I maintained our determined pace through the ever-expanding jungle with brush, bush, and canopy becoming increasingly thicker with each breath.
By mid-morning, the sun shone stronger as the temperature steadily raised; however, it was still a comfortable level for us mountain dwellers (like Eddy, I too am from a higher and cooler elevation). The early-morning trek was mostly downhill or on even-ground. Later, with the river's sound now far below, the trail-shape shifted to large uphill climbs and short declines, often changing off from one to the next. Our trail was higher than before, rarely dropping within rock's throw to the relatively slow-moving rapids.
By mid-day, the sun was overwhelming. The temperature was now becoming a difficult variable. And, to mostly my dismay, the drinking water quantity was decreasing lower and lower. I told Eddy about this; his reply was, "No importa, hay chacras por alla (No problem, there are small farms over there--in the distance)." To this, I responded with an inner prayer that this was so, and that my decision to leave the jug of water at the mission wouldn't nip us any time soon. I decided to cut back on my intake; Eddy wasn't consuming much in the first place.
The first chacra we came upon was joined by a series of neighbors. We were high on a hillside that fell mildly to the riverbed. Once reaching the first home on the first chacra, Eddy and I were "attacked" by a group of local children all playing a game of "celebrate the arrival"; it felt like we were the heroes coming home from the long journey to unknown lands. This, in a way, was true. But, unlike the theme of this narcissistic fantasy, we weren't from these parts. Nonetheless, we enjoyed the jovial welcome and quickly made friends with these children and their teachers. Eddy informed me that the building that I thought to be a "home" was actually a school; the children were local orphans being cared for by the two (or possibly more) teachers.
While observing the shed/shack style structures typical in most any jungle area, one common physical characteristic evident on each of the children of the school came into focus: their bellies. Lack of proper nutrition was the culprit for the bloated feature found on each of the school children. As this disturbing factor sunk in, I immediately began to understand an aspect of life in the jungle: that is, its often difficult and taxing lifestyle, especially in a disproportionate economy that usually excludes poor people (a huge issue worldwide).
As I was to find, many of the people living in these particular areas were relatively new settlers who had been granted permission by the Peruvian government to lay stake in these lands. Historically, this technique has been popular, for it is a more subtle way of "civilizing" the jungle and its inhabitants. In addition, it's a method to alleviate the land problem for numerous small-scale and subsistence farmers who have been forced off their land by big (and bigger) business in the more fertile soil areas of the jungle, and also in the higher mountains and non-jungle areas.
And, as Eddy and I would witness in the coming days, malnutrition was commonplace in children and adults alike. For the time being, I was set on providing in whichever way I could. Within a few minutes of wondering around this small community, we were approached by a twenty-something year old woman. She was tense with worried eyes as she asked us, "Uds. tienen una forma de medicina? Mi papa esta muy enfermo (Do you have some form of medicine? My father is very sick)." Eddy and I looked at each other with honest hopes of assisting this woman and her father. In realizing the futility of any such hopes, I immediately pulled my "medicine cabinet" (a plastic bag with a diverse collection of medicines and first-aid materials that I always carry) out of my backpack. As I scurried through the goods ranging anywhere from oils to medical tape to various pills, I came upon a half-full bottle of Aleve; the perfect remedy for any general medical issue, also a great placebo.
I gave the bottle to the woman. She gratefully accepted my gift, and promptly offered my friend and I a half-dozen granadillos (the juiciest of jungle fruits) from the surrounding trees. We equally accepted her gift, and, both of us being intensely thirsty, simultaneously began to eat these succulent fruits of goodness. Our attack of the granadillos continued as we said our goodbyes to the woman. I found these divine fruits to be almost a better form of hydration than water; within a few moments after having eaten them, and drinking their high water contents, I was fully satisfied and ready to trek some more.
Prior to our exit from the small community, we played briefly with the beautiful children of the school. I would have liked to stay for a bit longer than we did, but we were pressed for sunlight; our most trusted ally on the road through the Vilcabamba jungle. I said a happy prayer for the father of the woman hoping that my small contribution could help his larger problem, and we trekked on.
The next road on the trail took us higher in elevation, a few hundred feet up to the top of a hill. There we were able to replenish ourselves with the all-trusted delights of soda! In truth, the going was getting tough. The heat of the sun on the way up the hill was devastating and, by the time we reached the solo home/farm I (at least) was both dying of thirst and for the quench of in any form; even through the normally untrusted way of soda. We exchanged pleasantries with the family whose property we were infiltrating. Then, in a half-daze, I asked for, paid for, and received my highly-sought, temporary liquid gratification. I slurped down the luke-warm corn syrup mixture while enjoying the flash of satisfaction; then coming down from the onset of dryness that permeated my mouth. We rested for a brief few moments, and we were off again.
My one concern at this point, aside from snakes, was our water quantity situation. Our bottles by ten o'clock in the morning were very low; it was coming down to the nitty-gritty in the sense of not knowing where or if we could purchase water along the distant trail and how much time the rest of the trek would be taking. Before leaving the farm, we asked the wife of the family how long we could expect in order to reach Vilcabamba or Espiritu Pampa, the small town synonymous with the site. The wife told us about six more hours. This estimation seemed a bit much and it ran counter to the others that we had heard. We decided to get more opinions further down the trail, for after considering the five that we had accumulated, the estimation spectrum had been created, while lending to our continued confusion as to our ETA.
We weren't even completely sure if we'd be arriving at Espiritu Pampa that day or the following day. But, based on an average of the proposed times polled, most likely we were halfway optimistic that we would be arriving sometime during that evening. We pressed on in spite of the mixed responses and the lingering thirst on this day that was becoming increasingly hot.
I had heard about the lively rain storms that always surprise visitors and locals alike in the jungle area. As this divine thought entertained my mind and my greatest dreams at this moment, I ventured into just what all of this would feel like: cool air, drenched hair, skin, and clothes, the subsiding of thirst, and all the rest. I, for a brief second, was in this comfortable environment, for I loved the thought and feeling of this! But, like most day-dreams, one is pumped back into reality as if no other reality were ever possible.
The heat was intense; it was humid, like being trapped in a rice-cooker on the futile "warm" setting. The omnipresent/potent mosquitoes were at full attention, and my saliva felt like it was crustating. The trail was tough too, for hours we followed the same pattern: (with the river as our compass through the river valley) up the hill while winding toward the lower-lying river, then once at the top, a downhill running away from the river; this pattern continued on and on and on and on down the long, seemingly never-ending and descending river valley.
My camera stopped working, which formed a tertiary concern of mine (following the secondary: the state of my knees, and the primary: my hydration level). Eddy and I passed a few more spread out chacras along the trail, none having that all-desired H2O combination. We kept on as my (and, to a lesser extent, his) desire slowly turned into necessity; my usual hydration minimum was being breached causing a "code red" on all levels. Now our trek became one of a survival nature; rather than enjoying the views and basking in their beauty, I now only saw the route consisting of circuit stops whose values were determined only by their presence or absence of bottled drinking water. It felt like each uphill and downhill combination just formed the structure and arrangement of the same song played over and over again, while my cries for some sort of divine intervention continued. The hallucinations began soon after; my pace slowed, my preoccupations subsided, as surrender became the center of my focus; if death be bestowed, then I, at least, would be departing in a beautiful jungle paradise! I immediately commenced my prayers, trusting that my affirmative calls and visualizations of water would soon be heard and manifested.
The heat was intense; its grip tightened by the inescapable humidity that abounded. News of Concevideyoc, the small stop on the trail soon came by way of an arierro (a muleteer). He told us fifteen minutes no more until the pueblito. My heart raced at the news as images of water consumption followed. Given my susceptible state-of-affairs though, these images competed forcefully with those of lack and absence; I saw myself being let down by the non-presence of anything.
Entering the small stop at Concevideyoc, we were immediately approached by an old indigenous woman. As we saluted her, we informed her of our need for water in whatever shape or form. She showed us to her make-shift store. I inspected the surroundings for a moment: bamboo walls, dried-leaf and slanted rooftops, and swept dirt patios. Lunch was cooking on the stove on the outdoor, covered patio that bordered the store. Eddy and I entered the store as if guided by the devil. Our souls burned for pleasure, and we, at this point, wouldn't stop for any reason. And there it was: Water! I spotted an unopened flat of water bottles on the shelf above the old woman. I hastily asked how much, for I knew at this place the cost could be outrageous given its utter rural-ness. When the old woman replied "ocho soles (eight soles)," I knew the asking price would be cutting at the heart of my very low money-count level. I scurried through my backpack searching for any form of currency. Previously, I had inspected my bag and found no sign of anything other than a badly torn twenty-dollar bill (American) that would be difficult to pass in any busy city in Peru, let alone in the ruralist of rural stops such as this one.
I knew that I had only "nueve soles" and this anomalous (due to its unacceptability) American dollar. As I was about to find, the usual excitement with which people normally accept the latter currency in Anywhere, World, was all but absent in the wild and descending depths of the Peruvian jungle. The lady accepted my "nueve soles (nine soles)" but passed on my torn, retched dollar for reason of its difficulty to exchange for "real" money, her unfamiliarity to this strange currency, and the horrible tear down the middle of the bill, a certain marker of devaluation with any currency exchange person in any town or city in Peru.
I rebelled by asking for a lower exchange rate for my twenty. The lady denied it. Eddy and I began to offer her other forms of currency: yogurt, granola bars, and sugar. Aha, sugar, that previously thought-to-be money/space waste and offerer of excess weight and bad teeth! Would it prove to be a profitable ally in this meager situation?! The lady denied each of these individual ploys but quickly offered us a drink from her boiled water that just finished its term on the stove over on the patio. We both accepted. I, frustrated more than my friend, was less enthusiastic about the prospects for I knew that it wouldn't be enough water to quench the thirst that would inevitably return once we reentered the trail anew.
Once having calmed down a bit, I asked the lady the distance to our destination of Espiritu Pampa, or Vilcabamba. She replied, "Tres horas mas (three more hours)." Soon after, she asked a leisurely-strolling man the same question. He replied, "Dos horas mas (two more hours)." So there we had it, the continued confusion with regard to time. I initially attributed this perceived confusion to laziness or indifference, but later I realized that it probably wasn't any of these things at all.
Traditionally, people who live close to the earth are subject to the earth; the seasons change, their activities change. Similarly, they use the position of the sun and moon and other planets as signals of what is here and what's to come. Another aspect of the sun is to know more-or-less how much time is available to complete the day-time activities and tasks. After the sun sets, night-time activities take precedence. In sum, clock time, a western/northern obsession, is less important than position of the sun and the activities that go with it.
Seeing through this traditional lens is the sure way to enter into the world of these people. But, unfortunately for me, I was a lost cause; in that moment as I glared into the eyes of the stubborn old woman, I was ready for an exact measurement of big-hand/little-hand, not this maybe/maybe not bullshit! And another thing, war, rather than the peace that comes with following the variable flows of the day, was my fiercely exact method! My primal instinct shot forth from my soul; I needed water and I needed to know how long it would be until we reached our target on this seemingly endless and timeless jaunt into the arduous unknowns of the Peruvian jungle.
My frustration was very apparent to all present. Eddy took the hint real quick and took the initiative by thanking the old woman and promising a return (by him at least) in the near future. I did my best to thank her as well, but I'm sure the result came off as a fabricated attempt at best and nothing more. In truth, I was fuming; I was tired of this trip, I wanted to know how long it would take the rest of the way, I was thirsty and ready for the city all over again. It is surprising, even to this day, to say that I would've chosen hanging-out in the comforts of a mall (with food, drink, and endless monotonous shopping) than be where I was in that particular moment.
Regardless of the situation, we boldly moved on. Eddy, sensing my aggression, led the way as I followed closely behind. This probably surprised my friend given that I had been quite the trailer for the better part of the trek previous to this specific segment. I now, more than ever before, was driven; like a bat-out-of-hell, nobody could stop me. I pounded the already hard-packed dirt with each step, more and more negatively inspired with each movement forward. Vilcabamba was our goal and as far as I was concerned, we would reach it before all of the loosely projected times mentioned earlier by those sun-watching/worshiping locals.
Sure enough, within the first ten minutes of our renewed jaunt, we crossed paths with a man coming in the other direction. Eddy and I saluted him and inquired about the time it would take. The vibrant and upbeat local man told us that Espiritu Pamba, or Vilcabamba, sat just one hour away from our current location. "Great," I exclaimed heartened by the news. We thanked the man and we left opting to maintain our brisk pace and ride this new-found enthusiasm!
Although it took me a considerable amount of time to complete it, I, in the end, was victorious. And, after having called out in maximized pain on numerous occasions, my friend Eddy had heard enough from the complaining gringo. His arrival to Espiritu Pampa was much more calm and reserved. I, on the other hand, probably sounded like a flogged pig in search of some form of comfort in a position that would not come soon enough, if ever!
All of the craziness came to an end when the descent and concomitant knee tension relaxed. It was one of the most notable shifts in physical reality I had ever experienced. Looking back to the road prior, it's as if it just happened so easily and without much effort. It's as if none of the pain from before even existed.
The first structure we saw in entering Espiritu Pampa was a small traditional house with a fenced-in front yard. Awaiting us at the house were two men, a woman, and two small children. They all stared at us as we approached the front gate to the yard of the house. Immediately, one of the men rose and asked us about our trek along the long road.
To be frank, in all other situations I would've been very apprehensive about approaching this house of people. It's not that I avoid the localest of local, it's that I tend to stray from the drunkest of drunk! And, of the latter, they were!
In any event, Eddy answered the mischievous one's question with poise and calm. A short time later however, the same man wanted to know about me, my origin and reason for traveling alone (without other gringos). Initially talking to my friend, the man was surprised to hear and find that I too spoke Spanish quite well in addition to my obviously native English tongue. I lied in telling the man that our trip was quick and easy and that we were just looking for some water to purchase (also a lie, in disguise!). The man caught wind of my haste and recommended that we have a seat, drink some beer with he and his friend, and relax. We did so, had a few glasses of the local Pilsner and then I inquired again: "Tienes agua para comprar (Do you have water to purchase)?" Again the man ignored my question opting instead to look over to his friend in a patronizing demeanor as if to say, "This gringo's got himself in a tough spot!" And I was in a tough spot: I was dying of thirst, not able to communicate clearly and directly, and was currently in the disconcerting company of the local drunks (both of whom were supposedly the representatives of the regional cultural agency and were responsible for the well-being of both the Vilcabamba site and that of the few tourists passing through to this middle-of-nowhere site). Oh yeah, did I mention they were shit-faced drunk?!
I was really in no mood for games so I decided to press these assholes a bit more. So I pulled out a twenty-dollar bill and asked them the price of their bottled water, probably San Luis or Cielo (two Peruvian brands that are ubiquitous throughout all of Peru). A brief look of surprise on the face of the main asshole was followed by a blunt and cynical response: "We don't have water." My look of shock formed the next question and elicited a follow-up response from the same asshole: "But, we do have Coca-Cola," as the asshole lamely pointed to a two liter bottle of Coke in his other hand, while he basked in his new-found control situation. I immediately told him that I'd purchase the bottle of Coke. He quickly responded, "Can I see that twenty-dollar bill?" I gave him the bill. He took one glance at it and responded, "No, I can't accept this; it has no value." I was completely out of my body and probably back in Concevideyoc at that moment. Haunting whispers of the old woman in the town on the hill still bombarded my attention. These rejective responses cut straight to my gut as they collectively formed the stuff of the worse of any travel nightmares. I had no choice in those desperate seconds but to pull out my iPod and offer it to the man for a couple bottles of soda. The man reacted with a look of surprise on his face; later, I found out that he didn't know what the object was that I had in my hand (message provided via Eddy), an object that is now (and was then) the tell-all image of modern Western Civilization and influence.
Eddy and my travels exemplify this. And we were lucky for various reasons: we had enough food, we had modern shoes (even though mine were insufficient city shoes!), we had a trail to walk on, we had clearance from the often fast-growing brush (trees and bushes), we had reference points (houses and chacras), we had a map (even though the estimated time-tables were radically varied), and we knew that there was a way out! The Spaniards had none of this and, to really add perspective, they had to face the extreme danger of Inca soldiers attacking from any angle, day or night. Once the Spanish did infiltrate the Vilcabamba area, they were able to influence Tupac Amaru and his high officials to flee from his kingdom and take residence further in the Peruvian jungle. Later on, the last Inca was captured and eventually quartered in the Plaza de Armas in Cuzco.
After our short-lived yet sufficient tour of the small magnificent site, Eddy and I returned to the asshole's house. By this time the asshole had mellowed-out and had advanced to "normal" status while reclaiming his role as husband and father of his cute wife and his two lovely children, respectively. It was now easier to get through to him just as it probably was easier for him to get through to me, given my similar mood-lift. Eddy and I sat in the company of the same people but now the ambiance had shifted into a calmer realm. I played "peek-a-boo" with the little boy and girl as they ran around in the excitement of having visitors in their front yard. Eddy asked the man if we could stay the night since it was now too late to press on. The man, now much more sane, cordially agreed and offered us dinner and a room to stay in.
That night we had a relaxing visit with the family and all went quite well. Dinner consisted of rice, guinea pig, and yuccas, along with the ever-flowing Coca-Cola. Juan, the former asshole, was actually an upstanding man while he offered us information and a partner (in himself) to travel with the following day. I thanked both Juan and his wife for their hospitality and apologized for my previous attitude explaining to them that our trek was quite arduous. They understood and, after I excused myself, wished both Eddy and I a good night sleep. My friend and I claimed our room, organized our sleeping bags, and each of us fell quickly to sleep.
The rooster called early that morning while slowly waking me up. I immediately looked over to my friend, a subtle snore marking his peaceful sleep. I resolved to lay back down and to take in the sounds of a calm early morning in Espiritu Pampa. I listened to water boiling in the neighboring kitchen. Footsteps pouncing around the area just outside our room; surely the makings of the two children. Two male voices sounded off into the distance most likely discussing the prospects of the day to come. I concentrated on my breathing while vowing to honor each moment of this day and to keep all things in perspective. Today, we were blessed: we had liquids, we had food, we had a shower, we were on our way back to Quillabamba (the original start of my venture), and we were on target to arrive to that city sometime later that same night.
Eddy and I rose, packed up, and readied ourselves with the help of Juan. Along with the three of us we would be assisted by Juan's mule who would carry my pack along with Juan's things. This was a wonderful weight off of my shoulder, for the brunt of the first two days was the weight of my pack. We mostly descended down a whole series of zigzags to our eventual goal some two hours later around 9:00 a.m. Our goal was actually a make-shift truck stop where a Toyota pickup truck waited to fill its pick-up part with passengers from nearby towns. When we arrived to the stop, a whole group of locals stared curiously, skeptically, and humorously at our/my arrival. The reason: I stood-out like a sore-thumb! I realized that the feeling of "being watched" was frustrating and my mood followed in that direction.
After Juan organized our trip with the driver, each of us climbed into the back of the truck sharing space with seven other people. Ten minutes later, we left. This experience was most definitely a first for me, for I had previously only been one of two passengers in the back of any pickup. The bumpy ride took us around numerous bends and twists in a mostly mountainous area of the jungle. We continued to stop off at towns and villages along the way dropping off and picking up singles and pairs. After about one hour of monotony, we finally reached our much anticipated first destination on this stretch of the trip, the town of Yuveri.
In this good-sized town (for this part of the jungle) we immediately solidified plans to take a larger truck all the way to Quillabamba. Eddy and I were told by the truck's owner (who was also the owner of the pickup) that we would leave in no more than two hours; at that point it was 11:00 a.m. There was an organized soccer match being played in the main square of the city so we finagled some water, a few beers, and some food (by trade) and made our way to some shade on the other side of the soccer field. There, we rested and enjoyed the fruits of our efforts as the local teams played on. The game was intense. Both teams played roughly; they resorted to aggression when their (lack of) skill failed them. Eddy and I cheered as we patiently waited for our truck to leave.
Two hours later we inquired about the ETD (estimated time of departure). The owner informed us that we would have to wait no more than one hour more because an important delivery had been held up just down the way. We agreed and promised to return in one hour. Eddy and I re-assumed our spots on the other side of the soccer field as we were able to catch the second game's proceedings. We laughed as the two sides for the most part struggled to find any sort of rhythm. Of course, it's easier said than done. In realizing this, I proceeded to keep the rest of my laugh to myself.
Closing in on the one hour wait, our truck appeared to be in no form to depart. Eddy and I walked over to the truck asking the owner again. Again receiving the same response this time without an estimated time. We both, I especially, weren't thrilled at all. We asked the owner if we could help in any way so as to speed-up the process. He said that we could help fill the (then empty) truck with the produce/products to be delivered to Quillabamba. We agreed.
Eddy and I, plus a few others immediately helped load bags of achiote seeds, something else, and pounds and pounds of bananas. Within one more hour the huge truck was filled to its brim with these products and still no ETD!
We pleaded with the owner to get things rolling. Though by this time he had had a few beers and his attention seemed drunkenly scattered. He made jokes to us and asked me why I had come out to these parts. I laughed superficially and told him because it's beautiful. He laughed a bit more and told us: "Don't worry amigos, we'll be leaving very shortly..." Eddy and I turned away from the fat drunk owner of the truck and opted ourselves to have another beer (if you can't beat'em, join'em!). After doing so, it then appeared, that we were almost ready to go; more passengers started arriving and we too climbed into the back of the almost full truck. All the passengers etched-out a space on top of the achiote bags or next to the bananas. I assumed a spot in the middle part of the back of the truck. In another half-hour the engine started. Fifteen minutes later we were off. I briefly talked with a neighboring man but cut-off my words for sake of honoring my building frustration with all things Peruvian, including: approximated schedules (including their loose ETAs and ETDs), currency issues (including the lack of ATMs in rural jungle areas), drinking problems (by slim and fat, especially on Sundays...and Mondays!), and whatever else I could negatively focus on in that moment.
This tension and negativity eventually spilled-over while forming an event that I regret very much. About five hours through the eight hour truck trip, the now incredibly drunk owner of the truck switched positions from the passenger's seat of the truck to the back of the truck with the rest of the passengers. After a few minutes of conversing in the dark (it was nighttime) with a few acquaintances, the drunk man patronizingly addressed me: "Hey gringo, como estas, todo bien (Hey gringo, how are you doing, is everything okay)?" I opted not to respond. The drunk inquired further, "Gringo, me escuchas (Gringo, do you hear me)?!" I still didn't respond, for I knew what would come out of my mouth would be ugly and unnecessary. The stubborn man matched my stubbornness by asking again, "Ahh come on, you don't want to talk to me?" This time I responded, and I did so immediately. "Borracho, por que hay muchas paradas; todos de nosotros estamos esperando (Drunkard, why are there so many stops; all of us are waiting)!" The man didn't like this response one bit. He yelled out, "Carajo" (fucker or prick)!" He followed this up with something I didn't understand. I really can't remember the rest other than the stark silence that followed. The man eventually fell asleep and I tried to do the same in knowing that we still had about three hours to reach Quillabamba. The rest of the ride was uncomfortable, more so given my unnecessary out lash at the owner of the truck. In retrospect, Eddy and I were probably very lucky to have stayed on the truck, for if we were kicked-off we could have been really screwed as we were far away from our target city, and very much in the thick of it.
Luckily for me (/us), the owner wasn't into escalating the matter further, and so our stay on the truck was extended. I drifted in and out of sleep for the rest of our trip and actually caught a few z's in preparation for our arrival (and my return) to Quillabamba. We pulled into the main plaza at midnight after the long circular walking, waiting, and riding game that we played. I immediately grabbed my bag and left to find the nearest ATM. Unfortunately, I didn't inform Eddy or the truck's owner about my plans. So for the next half-hour I searched for money and, soon after that, the separated whereabouts of both my friend and my foe. First, I found my foe. Luckily, he was mellow and accepted deserved apology; he took the money and told me that Eddy was also looking for me. I thanked him and wished him well. He climbed in the passenger's seat of the large truck and they rode away. I then recommenced my search for Eddy, my unintentionally estranged friend and trail guide.
After a brief look through numerous Quillabamban blocks, I found him. He annoyingly asked where I had gone. I gave him the truth and we both decided to find a hostel. We then decided to eat and celebrate the completion of our circle through the jungle. Lucky for us there were food carts still open and operating a few feet away in the main plaza.
We chose one of the woman-operated carts. We excitedly joined a man who was already there with beer in hand. Within a few moments of ordering a local Quillabamban delicacy, the man brashly inquired about our presence in Quillabamba. Upon hearing the man and seeing his red-faced complexion, we knew he was very drunk. I immediately felt uncomfortable in knowing that this wasn't a favorable position to find ourselves in.
Eddy explained that we went to Vilcabamba and that we had just arrived back from our long trip. The man appeared to be very impressed by all of this. But his demeanor quickly changed. He began to tell Eddy about the danger of bringing a gringo through these areas and that if we were to run into the wrong people that we should have reason for concern. He also then identified himself as one of those people. Eddy turned to me with a fearful look on his face. I got the point even though I didn't understand the majority of what the man was saying given his drunken, coastal-slanged Spanish (he was probably from Lima or the coast of another South American country). Eddy and I decided to just finish our food, pay, and make our way to the hostel. The man, on the other hand, had different ideas. He pulled out his wallet and told Eddy (and me, indirectly) that he was from Tingo Maria (a notorious drug-related/involved area in the jungles of central Peru) and that usually they (him and his cronies) hold gringos for ransom and/or do something else with them. The man then stared (he didn't look) at me. He continued to talk in an extremely negative and taunting manner while peering through my eyes. I acted like I didn't understand him when he asked me why I stayed so quiet. I only shook my head and looked over to Eddy who supported me by explaining to the man that I didn't speak much Spanish and that I couldn't understand what the man was saying. The man grew frustrated as he laughed crazily into the air. He turned his neck again back at me explaining that he was armed and that we had to be very careful with him. I got that part and in that moment I could think of nothing more than to pray. I asked for help that the situation would resolve peacefully and that we would get to our hostel in one piece.
Moments later, on my last bite of food, I asked the woman for the bill. She told us the price, we payed, and we hastily left. The man, obviously not in the mood to make a larger scene that night, said a few more unattractive things. His voice faded into the background as our feet did the talking for us. Even though our hostel was one minute away by foot, we decided to catch a rickshaw in the plaza to take us there. Inside the hostel we both sat tense and very uncomfortable while we worried about the man and wondered what his limits were. Would he find us? And if so, what would he do to us? What about in the morning, would we have to watch out for him still? Through utter surrender we let all of those possibilities go and we opted for a peaceful resolution. Both of us went to bed quite easily given our fatigue.
In the morning, I awoke and rose first. I took a shower and readied my bag. Eddy eventually caught up to me and we both left for the bus terminal. Prior to reaching the terminal, we stopped off at the hostel I stayed in during my initial stay in Quillabamba. I picked up my jacket from the same kid and promptly thanked him and left. At the terminal, I would catch my bus back to Cuzco while Eddy would accept his complete payment from me and stay in Quillabamba for a few days.
After having bought my bus ticket to Cuzco and while eating a late breakfast, Eddy and I reflected back on our trip through the hallowed jungles of the Cuzco Region. I thanked him for his expertise and assistance in everything. I then made sure that I had all of my necessary things prepped-up for my eight-hour ride back to Cuzco. I felt I had everything other than my relished iPod, for I couldn't locate it anywhere. I searched frantically for my music player, but after five minutes of unloading my bags, no sign of it! I asked Eddy about it; he said I may have left it at the hostel we stayed at the night before. He offered to go and look. I gladly accepted his offer. He left while I waited for the hopeful good news upon his return. While I waited, I had a funny feeling that I wouldn't be seeing my iPod ever again. The idea that either Juan, the man from Espiritu Pampa, took it or, more directly, Eddy himself. Whoever it was, I knew that it wasn't in the hostel.
Upon Eddy's return, his response confirmed my suspicion; no sign of my iPod. I asked him if he had checked his bags. He said he didn't have it anywhere while showing me basically every angle of his bag. I thought back to our trip. I remembered that Juan had tied my bag on the back of his mule. I, from there, questioned whether both Eddy and Juan had worked-out a plot to steal it from me by hiding it somewhere that I wouldn't be able to locate it. In any event, the iPod was gone but to my utter joy we were safe and were so with little blood shed.
I thanked Eddy again for everything and I told him that one day I would return. He wished me well and thanked me for everything. I was a bit saddened to leave in spite of only having spent three-and-a-half days together. I think whenever one shares profound or intimate time with another, the feeling is always significant. Lord knows Eddy and I passed through many deep-seated emotions together (me especially). From twisting ankles to making important decisions. From waking at three in the morning to having an expanded breakfast before departing on a full-day's trip through the humid, hot jungle. From being denied on our attempted barters to barely eeking-out the acquisition of water and beer. Eddy and I experienced some short-lived recreational hardships and we became more closer-connected for it. With all of this in mind and heart, Eddy and I went our separate ways; I climbed on the bus to Cuzco, and he waved goodbye while anticipating his sure-to-be fun few days in the city of Quillabamba.
As the bus rode on into the ascending zigzags of the Quillabamba outskirts, I thought back to the emotional adventure that now laid behind me. I felt that a black cloak had been attached to my neck and that this bus ride was an opportunity to shed this shadow from me. Even though I enjoyed parts of this trek, I, for the latter half of it, was quite miserable while living far outside of my comfort zone. Comfort zones to which I was now returning, namely those of Cuzco.
I learned a lot about trekking on this venture. I learned that one must choose a well-trained and experienced trail guide; although Eddy did very well, he wasn't experienced and therefore "water-scares" and "money-shortages" took place, which is something that could have been avoided with a seasoned guide (though I take my part of the responsibility for this as well). Also, the organization of the tour would have been much clearer and better understood with an experienced guide.
Another lesson learned was the importance of being in a good mood. When one is in a positive mood, it is next to impossible to experience hardship. Cases in point of the influence of my negative mood: being denied water by the old woman in Concevideyoc and not having the presence of mind to look for other alternatives, running into the drunk men in Espiritu Pampa and putting-up with their antics, having my iPod stolen or intentionally misplaced, trading harsh words with the drunk owner of the truck, and running into the scary drug dealer guy in the plaza of Quillabamba. These were all results of being locked into a bad mood and, funny as it is to say now, two-and-a-half years removed, I'm lucky to be able to write about it today! There were of course other historical and cultural lessons learned, all of which I have assimilated and have added to the richness of this truly incredible memory of my adventure into the depths of the south-central Peruvian jungle. The next journey will surely be that much more exciting given the lessons learned and adventures lived during this one.
Peace.
Copyright Patrick Roseblade 2010
1 comments:
Not Bad Cus! Sounds almost eviable
Cheers
Mahoney
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