Outside of Arequipa lies a beautiful landscape of volcanoes, hot and thermal springs, and other fancy-sounding things. We made for the "Canyon de Coca" the other day: "This is one of the deepest canyons in the world where the distance from the Colca riverbed to the top of the cliff is more than 13,100 feet." It took a nerve-wrecking, stomach-clenching 5-hour bus journey to arrive in Cabanaconda, home base for trips to the Canyon. I had in mind something like the Isla del Sol in Boliva: some peaceful walking, easy on the altitude, beautiful landscape,repetitive food, and cheeky kids.
Instead, as became crystal clear on day 1, this was a different business. We made out as late as 8am, what with all the last-minute water-and-banana-buying. Around 9am it was seriously hot. There weren´t many people - we had taken the "less touristic" road -, but among those we met was a shrivelled old lady who slowly but steadily walked by with her donkeys where I had collapsed in a rare spot of shade, around 12pm.
Upon arrival at our destination of Llamar (or similar) realization dawned that this wasn't a pueblo, only a place for weary tourists. It turned out to be quite incredible: With a stellar view on the canyon, comfortable bamboo-based beds, really good food, 2 cats, and very soothing thermal springs.
On day 2 we started earlier, at 6.30, without (the heavy and egg-based) breakfast from yesterday and with only about 1.5 liters of water, as the next pueblo was supposed to be close (drumrolls).
Climbing up, I took the first round of carrying the heavy backpack; I was playing the lady card, as my Chilenean co-traveller was supposed to carry it during the hotter time.
We reached a forsaken little place, decorated with cactus and red flowers as garden. A blind man and a deaf lady lived there. I wondered who took care of the old couple. They didn't appear to be very agile. The blind man asked for cigarettes and showed us the way and called me Mamacita. I told my compadre about that time when my family went trekking in some Scandinavian country, and my dad got lost. I must have been 7 or so, and I remember mostly the endless empty promises of "after the next hill, there'll be the hut." but there was always only a next hill... (drumroll 2)
We came to a crossing. As I remember it, we took the way as indicated, even though my companion said, Seeing that the man was blind... It didn't seem to be the right way. It was very narrow and unkempt and after a while it hugged so closely the hill on one side and fell down steeply on the other that I was frightened to slip and fall. We changed packs. We walked on. Malata was supposed to be 1.5 hours from the couple's place. After two hours there was nothing, but the way got worse and worse. There were cactus and scrubs everywhere, steep up a hill on one side, steep down to the river on the other side. We felt we might be too high. It was hard to have an overview but there was a different path below us. We climbed down. The path turned out to have the same characteristics as the first path. To make this whole thing shorter, at one point the way ceased to exist.
I don't remember our reasoning, but we climbed down to the river. By climbing down I mean climbing. There was no path fit for humns, only vague animal treks. Twice I put my hand in a cactus. I was most afraid to fall and break something. My sneakers slipped, unfit for the excursion. I slipped. He slipped. It was hot. there was no fucking path.
Arrived at the river, there were three horses or horse-mule creatures. It was 11.30 am now, and we needed rest. My legs quivered, and while on the hill, the only shadow to be had was the occasional larger cactus. I had stopped taking pictures when the amount of sliding increased and my cooompaion stopped making "before death" jokes. There seems to be a time for everything.
The water in the river seemed, smelled and tasted quite obviously unfit for drinking, but I filled one empty bottle anyway. There was no path to make our way along the river to the next bridge, which I surmised should be close and would serve as landmark. The single house we had seen on the other side of the river - broad and heavily currented - seemed deserted.
After that excursion, the horses were gone, which worked quite devastatingly on my mood, although don't know what I had in mind: follow them (they ran quickly while we hobbled painfully and slow), ride them (yeah. right.), use them as messengers (how tacky)? But they were living beings, reassuringly alive.
However, as fate blinked for a moment and thus forgot about her current pastime of torturing two insignificant idiots (forgive the hyperbole), two guys appeared. They hopped as easily as the horses and didn't linger, but they told us where we were - 1km from the next bridge, and nowhere on the map really. (This doesn't say much, in my experience here, maps resemble kids' drawings of treasure map, with limited capacity for real information and unproportional dimensions).
The guys also told us how to get away. They said it was three hours either way, back to home base in Copacabana, or on to Malata, which meant all the way back upon the hill, on top of which there was a path to lead us to Malata.
We went back up the hill.
Don't ask me why, I really don't know. And I cursed and asked myself a lot on the way, until I stopped noticing anything anymore, not the threatening-looking declivity, the squishing and growling of the river, the startled birds exploding in a vertical fright flight like spacecrafts, the desert flowers, the pebbles and rocks, the sweetish smell of sweat. I stopped noticing all the scratching of my legs and arms and every exposed piece of skin of my body. My face was burning from sun, dirt, and sweat. We were also low on sunscreen.
I pulled on every plant that got my way and wasn't a cactus. This wasn't a way, it was vertically hagling up a steep slope on loose ground, in intense heat, with backpacks, and so little water that we rationed every sip. We were very slow. The boost that I had initially felt about finally knowing where we are quickly vanished. The hill seemed endless. no shade. no person. not even fresh animal trackings. we ate tuna - the fruit of cactus, and probably spelt differntly - cut with my knife. I must have eaten eight tunas that day. But they were so thoroughly spiked that we pulled out the fine stinging hairs endlessly afterwards, from hands, lips, face, tongue. I drank from the river water. My companion poured it over his head. When he started cutting open cactus in search of water, I decided it was time to change packs again. My body was in death mode, and I felt I couldn't linger while he sucked on a piece of peyote or else I might never get up again.
Little later, I cut open cactus as well and rammed a spike so deeply in my finger that my whole hand hurt. when we were on top one hill (there is always the next "top") it was 3 o'clock, and there was no way.
There were two pueblos visible, far away, in the direction we came from, without a way to get there. I couldn't think. It was all I could do not to panick but I was very very scared. Apart from the two sprinters, we hadn't met anybody all day. In three hours it would be dark. No water, and only dry, useless food. My cell phone didn't work here, and his had blocked itself. We were uttlerly exhausted, dehydrated, and by now I was less afraid of falling than of actually dying. Isn't this exactly what happens to stupid gringo tourists?
He wanted to go to the pueblo. The guys had told us shit. I wanted to go on. We went on. First we found the imprint of a human sole in the sand. Then we found a way. I was too dehydrated to cry. It was a broad, long path. We walked on. There was always another turn, but less sun now. There was wind, welcome and refreshing, even though it slapped you and your pack to the ground. When I finally saw a pueblo - Malata! - quite afar and below, I had a feeling of biblical dimension.
When we tottered into Malata, it was ten past 5pm. The town seemed deserted. We found a hostel, complete with guinea pigs and chicken (I though, "food!") and big black insects, but without any owner. We emptied all water bottles we could find. I actually staggered. Then we went twenty minutes more to the next town to find a hostel inhabited with human life. And that was it. A bed witha view, a hot shower, food and pulling out a 4cm-spike out of my finger, after 10hrs walking.
