Saturday September 7, 2019

In the Sacred Valley, Peru

1Kings 19:1-18

v. 11b-12  Then a great and powerful wind tore the mountains apart and shattered the rocks before the Lord, but the Lord was not in the wind. After the wind there was an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake.  After the earthquake came a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire. And after the fire came a gentle whisper.  We started hiking at Amaru.  It was about a mile up to the 14,200-foot pass.  It was very slow going and incredibly hard to breathe (though not all the others seemed to find it so) through the spectacular scenery of the mountains all around us.  But the Lord was not in the mountains.  The alpacas were fluffy and shy, grazing on surprisingly abundant growth, but the Lord was not in the alpacas.  Much of the way was rocky with little slippery stones, bigger ankle-twisters and lines of boulders here and there.  But the Lord was not in the rocks.  As I walked through the empty potato field just before our lunch stop there came “a gentle whisper.”  “My Spirit is within those who trust me,” reminded the Lord, “so I am with you wherever you go.”  The day’s majestic mountains, skittish alpacas, too many red rocks, the thin air and the smiles of the Quechua people—my Lord was already there with me in these things, showing me wonder and strengthening me with himself so “the journey [would not be] too great” for me (v. 7).  Thank you, Lord Jesus, for the reminder of your presence in this adventure.

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All ten in our group wanted to do today’s hike so up and up our two vans chugged on ever rougher roads, snaking past tiny settlements above the treeline, slowing down twice for little flocks of sheep ambling along the road. 

“I’ve jumped out of airplanes lower than this,” said Maurice.  At 13,150 feet we stopped on a broad slope near a church a bit frayed at the seams. 

I slipped in for a quick look.  It was the Nativity of the Virgin, and I chatted in my nonexistent Spanish with a local family decorating the sanctuary.

Juan had told us today’s hike would be accompanied by a couple donkeys, one carrying extra water, first aid supplies and oxygen, and the other for transport in case someone couldn’t manage the walk.  I was surprised; none of the information from REI mentioned emergency donkeys (probably because they don’t want you to sign up for the trip unprepared thinking you can easily drape yourself over a donkey and inhale pure oxygen whenever you want).  But there they were, walking down the hill to meet us—three donkeys, not two, with their owner and her daughter.  The donkeys must have had names but we didn’t know them; Monica soon dubbed them Uber, Lyft and Nine One One.

Up we started.  “We’ll take it really slow,” Juan had said several times.  It was a gentle slope, beginning on friendly green grass, and we had our hiking poles—so why was this so hard?  Ah, yes—there’s not a lot of air up here.  We walked and rested, walked and rested, and the rest stops gave us time to look back at the magnificent mountains, and over at the alpacas, and contemplate the rich brown earth of the potato fields, the only crop that grows this high. 

We also looked more carefully at the donkey lady behind us.  What was she doing?  Did she have a rope for the donkeys?  A yo-yo?  No.  She was spinning—spinning wool into yarn!  Walking behind us in her skirt and sandals—behind the wimpy North Americans moving at snail’s pace in their latest REI gear, leaning on their poles and gasping for air—the donkey lady, who had already walked over the pass once this morning, was drawing wool from the blanket tied around her shoulders, dangling her spindle and getting some work done.

We walked for about an hour and twenty minutes to Challwacasa, the pass at 14,200 feet.  Nobody needed oxygen or a donkey.  We took off our packs and reveled in the 360-degree panorama.  Even from the “ladies’ room,” just down the hill on one side, the view was exquisite from every clump of grass.

The descent was easier on the lungs, the rocky ground was trickier on the feet and the vistas were no less beautiful.  The pond we saw from on high turned out to be a water source for the valley, held back by a dam we walked across. 

In an hour and a half we reached the tiny village of Viacha where an al fresco lunch was waiting for us.

There was even a little building with a flush toilet and a sink with soap and paper towels (oh, the luxuries of organized group travel!).  I sampled the local beverage Inka Cola, one of the drink options.  Tastes like bubble gum!  After we ate, two Quechua men in a nearby potato field showed us how they plant potatoes—one of their village’s 230 varieties—with a digging stick, fertilizing each tuber with dried alpaca pellets.

We continued our gorgeous descent.  As we passed small settlements, potato fields, alpacas and stands of eucalyptus trees (flourishing but invasive here too), the intriguing markings on one of the smaller hills below us came into focus as the ruins of an Inca town and terraces.  As we stopped for a few minutes, two little girls appeared selling woven bracelets.  Monica bought one for each of us ladies.

We had to negotiate a steep path made up mostly of boulders before we got to Pisaq, the Inca town we had been approaching. 

Our vans were waiting, but we had the option to walk through the town first, so I joined that group.  Did I mention that the town spilled down the steep hillside of its strategic mountaintop location?  So up we climbed again, the fit young(er) hikers scampering up like mountain goats and me lagging behind unable to take in enough air.  We saw the remains of houses and got the same views from the top as the Incan rulers had as they made sure their slaves were working hard on the terraces below.  On the ascent through Pisaq we paused at a nondescript location.  “Give me your camera,” Saul instructed.  I complied.  He zoomed out the lens, scanned the cliff opposite and took a picture.  “Look at this,” he said, zooming in on the screen.  There were openings in the cliff, with white spots visible in some of them.  Skulls!  To keep animals away, the Incas buried their dead in fetal position in the sides of cliffs, sealing up the holes.  When the Spanish came, they eventually dug up graves as they pushed into every corner of the Incan empire looking for gold (which the Incas did not use much in burials).  Many untouched graves were later looted in the 1940s and 50s when there was no functioning Peruvian government.

Juan is willing to share with us what he really thinks, the real truth about Peru—things like, that the only people who celebrate Columbus Day are politicians, and how the Spanish invaders destroyed native genetic diversity.  Tonight at our meeting he told us about coca leaves:  It’s been scientifically demonstrated that, contrary to popular belief, coca doesn’t do a thing to help with altitude sickness.  The maka it contains is a stimulant and an anesthetic.  Chewing the leaves numbs the mouth and stomach so the person doesn’t feel hungry and can work in the fields all day.  Coca usage is also just cultural.  But 50% of coca production currently goes to drug dealers to make cocaine.  All the jungle countries now deal in cocaine, and it will never be controlled because politicians are in the business.

The hotel toilet paper situation is becoming…more unpleasant.  As nice as this lodge is, what with chocolates on the pillow and a jacuzzi and llamas in the garden, you’d think they’d have the trash can by the toilet all dust ruffled and perfumed.  Sadly, no.  This trash can doesn’t have a swing-top lid like the ones in the previous hotels.  In fact, it doesn’t have a lid at all.  (What is this—an airport bathroom?)  I still had part of the Carroll County Times in my bag, so I tore off the front page and folded it to fit over the trash can.  It’s not a swing top but at least I don’t have to look at the contents.