From the Andes to the Amazon: part 2

My hiking boots, which have carried me up and down Kilimanjaro and around six continents now, are lined with GORE-TEX. My shell jacket is made of a similar “breathable-waterproof” membrane. But here’s a law of physics: To the extent that fabric is breathable, it cannot be waterproof. My poncho, or a plastic bag, is waterproof, but it’s not practical to wear plastic bags on my feet.

On the afternoon of day 2 we had a steady downpour for hours. Walking in such conditions, my boots (and jacket) inevitably soaked through. I was wearing my fleece on top, so that kept me warm, even though the outside got wet. In retrospect I should have been wearing an extra pair of socks to delay the moisture getting to my feet. But I don’t usually like to wear two pairs of socks, as my feet get too hot!

Fortunately it was not raining early in the morning. José, one of the horsemen, woke us up with cups of coca-leaf tea in our tents, which made me feel like I was drinking Sherpa tea on Everest. Then we set off in a mist.

On this day the other horseman, Francisco, accompanied us with Rosalio, the “emergency horse.” I took that to mean if someone got injured and couldn’t walk anymore, s/he could be carried by Rosalio. Occasionally, when things got really watery, Rosalio carried Francisco. We hikers just had to pick our way around.

Because I was the slowest, at every stop our guide asked if I wanted to get on Rosalio, or put my heavy-looking (but not full) backpack on the horse. I was determined not to do this. On Kilimanjaro, once the guide took my daypack off me I felt like I’d lost control of my hike. I couldn’t drink water when I wanted to, and at that altitude and extreme of effort, finding extra breath to ask someone else for water is out of the question! 

The other annoying thing about being slower is that you never get as much rest as everyone else. By the time I caught up, the others had already caught their breath, and started moving on. It was difficult to keep going but every time I paused, there was Rosalio, breathing his horsey breath down my neck. 

Luckily, the weather stayed dry, and we could still see some of the glacier we’d viewed the day before. When I finally reached the top, Salkantay Pass, I made sure Alasdair took a picture of me still wearing my backpack!

4,650 m

We reached the pass about the same time as a Canadian family whom we kept bumping into on other days. We congratulated each other, and got a group photo.

It’s considered less safe to ride a horse on the descent, not that I’ve ever been into horse riding anyway (though horses are beautiful). So the guide finally stopped bugging me. In fact, I didn’t see much of him after that, though he was around to point out a couple of chinchillas.

Chinchilla

It was all downhill from there, literally.

Even without rain, there was enough water flowing down the mountain that we often had to step in or across it. The novelty of “ford every stream” was quickly wearing off. Then I heard thunder, and the rain started coming down steadily.

Even these horses were standing around looking defeated.

This was the type of weather I’d feared we might have the whole trek. It rained on and on. I reached the lunch spot, Huayracmachay (3,900 m) long after the others. Not until I stopped did I realize that both my boots and jacket had finally soaked through. Steam rose off me as I took off the jacket, and I didn’t even bother removing my waterproof pants. (That’s a garment I’ve only had a handful of occasions to wear, but when you need them, they’re priceless.)

As I mentioned, my fleece meant I was warm inside, even though the outside got wet. Crucial, because one can get hypothermia even at quite a mild temperature. I had to put everything back on to use the 1-sol toilet, which in this case was an outbuilding across yet another stream. Plus, I had to pass this dejected-looking Cerberus.

Holiday calendar--guinea pigs in a happier state

After lunch there was still 4 1/2 hours to go. The rain slacked off at intervals, but the descent was relentless. I started humming songs to myself like “Hang your head over, hear the wind blow,” because this was getting pretty monotonous, with no one around. To be fair, I would have been equally annoyed with the guide if he’d been hovering the whole time, bugging me or trying to put me on a horse.

Tragically, our group lost a horse that day. We heard that it slipped and fell (just as well it wasn’t me!), and had to be cut loose from the other horses, though the gear was recovered. I’m sad that this happened to any horse but I really hope it wasn’t Rosalio. Because in his own way, he did get me to the top.

Vaguely J-shaped piece of horseshoe, found on the trail and kept as a memento (mori?)

We finally reached Collpapampa (3,000 m) in a fresh downpour. We ate and slept under shelter again that second night, but the rain was endless. The air was far too damp to dry my boots; besides, I had to put them back on to go to the toilet, another outbuilding located across the sodden lawn. I know this is what I signed up for, but we’d reached Salkantay Pass at 10:00 that morning, and the sense of accomplishment seemed so long ago.

The one bright spot continued to be the cooking—four or five dishes at every meal. Things were looking up by breakfast on day 3.

Of course, there were still my feet to deal with. I’d noticed a blister while I was climbing up the previous morning and slapped a “second skin” on it right away, which would probably have been enough, had I managed to keep my feet dry. Since my boots were still wet, the only thing I could do was put dry socks on, then another pair over those that I knew would get wet, and just hope that kept my feet dry enough in the absence of yet more rain.

Speaking of feet--corn!

This was a shorter day. We basically descended for six hours from Collpapampa, into the Amazon jungle! We were following a river, not the Amazon itself but a tributary of it. One of the other joys of the wet season is that there are a lot of rockslides, so parts of the main trail were closed, and we had to keep crossing and recrossing the river. Sometimes this was a suspension bridge, at narrower crossings a tricky log bridge. Once we had to pick an elaborate path along stones in swiftly running water, and soaking my boots again felt like the least risk I was taking. But my favourite was this high, wide crossing, where an enterprising woman was running a “cable car.”

Cable car!

Funnily enough, I didn’t feel scared at any of these places. If someone had asked me if I wanted to pay a sol to have this woman haul me across the river, I would have declined; but we had to do it so I was the first to climb in. I even thought about taking pictures when paused high above the river, but we’d been told to hang on.

This was no Kili, that’s for sure. At the second campsite we actually had an electric socket, so I could charge my camera battery. I knew we weren’t exactly trekking in the wilderness, but I didn’t expect so many rest stops (not to mention the campsites) to be people’s yards. Every baño cost a sol but there was variety among them almost as wide as the river. I found one, still only a sol, that had a seat, a sink with soap, and papel!

Everyone seemed to have a dog, too. Our guide told us that in many places, there are just a few families living, so the children have to go to school in the village. This was Sunday, however, so we saw lots of kids around.

Our guide playing football with one of the little boys

I was tickled to be able to talk to the kids, even if it was just ¿Cómo estás? And ¿Te gusta? One thing I’ve noticed about language classes in general is they always teach the informal, so you can talk to your friends about how much you like the discotheque. But ever since I got to Latin America, every adult addresses me formally: Buenos días. And why wouldn’t they? We are strangers to one another. The only people I’ve gotten to use the informal with are little kids.

This little girl thought all the mud was just delightful to squelch her bare feet in. Not sure Grandma was as pleased.

I have mixed reviews of our guide. I do admire these men, mostly young fathers, who work hard guiding foreigners and invariably speak three or four languages. This guy was a native Quechua speaker (plus fluent in English and Spanish, obviously). As a descendant of the Incas, he was quite proud to tell us all the local knowledge, such as medicinal plants, the earth and sun and moon being gods, plus the tradition of sacrifice. The Incas used to offer human sacrifices—high in the glaciers such as where we’d climbed on day 2—and we know this, because of the mummies that have been found up there. The guide assured us that although “we have a different philosophy” today, back then, if your child was selected for the role of a human sacrifice, it was considered an honour.

I don't know if this is oral history or an anthropologist's theory, but either way, I'm skeptical. How can anyone alive today know what an Inca mother or father felt? But at least the guide talking to us meant that we were all together for once.

Faces painted, warrior style

Other than my damp boots, it was a halfway decent hiking day.

I was so glad I’d thrown in an extra pair of socks, but I still worried I wouldn’t have enough dry pairs to wear next to my feet. Then, blessedly, the sun came out! 

I started having fantasies about hanging my socks on a clothesline and setting my boots in the sun to dry, and lo, these were about to come true. Just a little while longer of hiking by myself.

Election posters--signs of a democracy

At last, I reached our campsite at “La Playa,” a mere 2,000 meters above sea level. Despite the name, it was not, therefore, a beach. But at least it wasn’t raining. As soon as I got my stuff out to dry, I treated myself to a cold shower. It’s a little disconcerting to take a shower while someone’s outside the open window doing dishes the whole time, but this afternoon was my one chance to be comfortable.

Hammock time

Because now we had a choice. We could go to the hot springs at Santa Teresa, and then bus it farther down the line towards Machu Picchu pueblo; or, we could do another big uphill hike the next day to an Inca ruin, then a yet steeper and muddier descent. Our guide must not have felt like doing this any more than I did, because he made it sound worse than day 2. Alasdair and Josie, of course, wanted to hike up to Llactapata, with a view to seeing Machu Picchu from there. If, that is, it was not raining.

By the time we made this decision, it was raining. Again. And my left foot was a wreck. But Josie gave me some of her tape, and the guide said if I really couldn’t do the next day’s hike, I could always ride with the chefs. (We’d left the horsemen behind and there was a road now.) We also decided that if it was raining the next morning we would all just go to the hot springs instead. 

Somehow, just knowing I didn’t have to hike made me feel more able to do it. The next morning, it had stopped raining, and meanwhile I had dry socks and boots to get into. What could go wrong?