Day 39 - 41 - Colca Canyon.

I was a bit apprehensive about handing over a week’s budget for three days in the Colca Canyon, but figured that since it’s my first time in the canyon, I should explore it with people who really know it, so I gritted my teeth and signed up with Colca Trek. And how glad I am that I did!
There are eight of us: an Italian family consisting of a middle-aged couple, their grownup son and his four-year old boy, Diego; Alex the Ukrainian Canadian from Toronto, originally from Kiev; Anne-Marie, a Dutch flight attendant who’s taken four months off work to travel around South America; Patrick from the States, who works for Homeland Security and myself. Our guide, Roosevelt, turns out to be an energetic and enthusiastic young man, originally from Cabanaconde in the canyon, who knows the area very well.

“Why are you called Roosevelt? It’s an unusual name, isn’t it?”
“Not really. I was named after my uncle.”
“But why was he named Roosevelt?”
“My grandfather liked the American president.”

Roosevelt has a cousin named Clinton. “I’ll name my son ‘Obama’”, he jokes.

Our first stop is by the side of the road, where a herd of vicuñas is grazing pretty close to us. Roosevelt explains to us how the wild creatures are shorn one a year (and only twice in their lifetimes) and how only two shops in Arequipa are authorised to sell items made of vicuña wool.

Then we deviate from the path taken by most tour groups, go off the road over some hill ground and walk down to see the otherworldly rock formations – giant stone cones of volcanic origin, shaped by the fierce wind and the heavy rains. It’s a little like Bryce Canyon in the States. I wander among the giants, climb on the smaller ones, peer down into the valley below. The middle-aged Italian lady is affected by the altitude and Roosevelt has to help her back to the bus after she’s finished dry heaving. The altitude has less of an effect on me than before; it no longer feels like I’m moving through treacle, though I get breathless when I hike back up the hill to the bus too quickly. We’re above 3,500m.

We pass a bofedál - a green area with small lagoons and waterlogged soil; the vegetation here holds water all year round, and supports various birds as well as the vicuñas.

When the road climbs higher, it gets seriously cold. We stop at the Miradór de Los Volcanes – a viewpoint from where you can see all the major volcanoes in the area. Local women with weathered faces sit over their colourful woollen wares, wrapped in so many layers of clothing, they look round. The area around is covered with apachatas – rock pile offerings to the gods of the mountains, some made by locals, some by tourists. I make my own offering. If the gods are satisfied with a few rocks piled on top of each other, that’s getting off easy; back in the day, they used to sacrifice children, first drugging them with herbal concoctions and then dispatching them with a blow to the head. One of them, Juanita the Ice Princess, is in the famous museum in Arequipa, having just come back from a ‘holiday’ in Chicago.

As the road descends through the mountains, we pass some women and children dressed in colourful traditional garb, selling handicrafts by the road. The children all have baby alpacas with them – really cute white woolly creatures with huge eyes and a perpetually hacked off expression on their little faces.

Chivay, the biggest town in the Colca Canyon, is our lunch stop. The canyon is populated almost wholly by indigenous tribes, and Roosebelt draws our attention to the women’s hats – some are white and flat, while others are intricately embroidered with an eight-pointed star on the top. The former are the Coyahuas and the latter are Cabanas. Traditionally, babies’ skulls were deformed in the name of beauty, so back in the day, flat hats would’ve been worn by women with flat heads.

We’re herded into Los Portales for feeding time at the ‘gringo zoo’. The food’s decent, actually – a mix of traditional stuff like rocotos rellenos and alpaca stew and the ubiquitous nuclear yellow Inca Kola. I actually rather like it; it’s like liquid bubblegum.

There’s a wedding procession walking along one of the dirt streets; the couple at the front of it are dressed in traditional finery and the bride has money tucked into the ribbon around her hat – a very practical wedding gift.

The dirt road winds along the edge of the canyon, along a sheer drop. On the other side loom tall green mountains and the little towns are surrounded by Inca terraces. I’ve never seen anything like it. Who knows, maybe if Chile’s Mapuche were weaker, then Chile, too, would still have the remnants of ancient agricultural practises… Roosevelt confirms that the majority of the people in the canyon still live traditional lives, mainly as farmers. The canyon got electricity nine years ago, and mobile phones last year. We pass a man on a mule, talking on a mobile phone, then an elderly yet sprightly sheep herder, her face deeply wrinkled like a raisin. Roosevelt speaks to her in Quechua and then informs us that she’s eighty-five. “People here live until they’re ninety, a hundred,” he informs us. It’s a rough life, though, and I guess they carry on working out of necessity. Reminds me of the lobster fishermen on Juan Fernández, who still go out to sea when they’re in their eighties.

People here are used to walking long distances. On the other side of the canyon, there are towns connected by footpaths only, footpaths that were used during Inca times, and to go shopping in Cabanaconde, the last village reachable by motor traffic, people walk for many hours, bringing produce on their mules to sell or to barter. From the pedestrian village of Malata, it’s possible to take an old Inca Road all the way to Cusco; Roosevelt’s done it in five days. Now that would be a heck of a hike…

We see a lot of mules, and only once does someone appear on a horse that daintily picks up its feet. “It’s a Peruvian dancing horse. They were brought by the Spanish and because they lived and worked by the coast, the horses learned to walk in the sand.”

Roosevelt points out large mounds of rocks with entrances, perched high up on the side of a steep mountain. “Those are Wari tombs. Wari came before the Inca and only the priests would be buried in the hanging tombs. That way they were closer to the gods of the mountains.”

It’s dark by the time we get to Cabanaconde and have an early night in anticipation of the hike.

At 7am, Roosevelt leads us through the narrow dirt streets and along more terraced fields until we reach the start of a steep ascent into the canyon. There’s a cross at the top of the path, decorated with red wild flowers – it’s the Jesus of the mountains. “The people here go to mass on Sunday but they also make offerings to the gods of the mountains.” The vegetation reminds me of the Copper Canyon in Mexico – the cacti, the heat, the scent of flowers in the air. We stop periodically to take photos and to marvel at the canyon’s beauty as it opens up before us and as each new lookout seems to be batter than the previous one. Looking down from the path is vertigo-inducing.

As we get closer to the oasis – a lush patch of green and the turquoise of swimming pools at the bottom of reddish-yellow cliffs – we pass scores of baked gringos. I can’t believe that some tour companies do the canyon trip in one day, with people doing the hike under the scorching sun. Patrick, Alex and I beat the mules carrying our luggage down to the oasis, but only just. The last part is a very narrow path covered with scree and I’m very cautious because my knee is beginning to feel the strain of the steep descent.

The Oasis or Sangayo (‘paradise’ in Quechua) is just wonderful. Roosevelt pitches our tents and cooks our food as we frolic in the pool – each of the five properties here has one, fed by natural springs. There are other tourists here, staying in the basic grass huts. After lunch, only the non-Italians accompany Roosevelt on a short excursion; four year-old Diego has found a boy his age to play with – a rarity in this community of five families – and the rest of the family is staying with him.

A short hike out of the oasis takes us to the hanging bridge across a shallow but fast river far below. Roosevelt points out two dark birds diving into the water – rare torrent ducks: “They’re fishing for trout”, and names the various plants we see. He lived with his grandmother for six years and her knowledge of herbology was extensive. He shows us a plant that looks similar to aloe vera: “You can make very strong ropes out of this”. Then aloe vera itself, ripping off part of a leaf, letting the yellowish liquid drip down, and showing us the slimy inside: “My grandmother would use the clear liquid as eye drops.” When we come to a cluster of nopal cactuses, he scrapes some white stuff off the cactus onto his palm; on close inspection, it looks kind of like woodlice rolled in flour. He then squishes one, releasing a spurt of red onto his palm and informs us that it’s cochineal, an insect used as red food colouring and in makeup. “Twice a year, the people here harvest it and sell it to cosmetics companies.” Though locals harvest the cactus fruit (tuna or ‘prickly pear’), the nopales themselves are not eaten, unlike in Mexico, though people do make infusions out of them which are good for the digestive system.

When we see names scrawled on rocks around us, Roosevelt explains that it’s not ordinary graffiti; it’s to do with upcoming elections. He then explains the fiasco that was the previous presidential election, when the corrupt Alberto Fujimori (who fled to Japan during the last year of his presidency) decided to run for president again, was arrested in Chile and now resides in the maximum security prison that he and Vladimiro Montesinos - the Karl Rove to Fujimori’s Bush - originally had built. There’s a possibility that Keiko Fujimori may run for president this time (and win).

Back at the oasis, Roosevelt fills in the gaps in my botanical knowledge. I recognised the fig tree (and raided it), the pink peppercorn tree, the banana tree…There’s a tree sporting large white flowers, hanging down like bells; apparently the leaves, if used as an infusion in the right quantity, have a similar effect to marijuana and are used during various rituals. Too much of it leaves you blind for a couple of days. The pink peppercorns are used as mosquito repellent.

Patrick and I discover that we have a lot in common. He works in Immigration; I was denied entry to the US. I studied in Puerto Rico; he lives in Puerto Rico at the moment.

Alex uses his sophisticated phone with Google Sky Map to help us find the Southern Cross. Roosevelt points out two bright stars near it – ‘the eyes of the llama’, and I know that I’ll never forget it now.

Very early night in anticipation of a 4am start. I’m awake at 2am and can’t fall asleep. We eat breakfast in the dark and set off. Am sweating very soon and grateful for the early start; in the heat, it’d be unbearable. Gradually, Alex falls behind. Patrick is in front, and Roosevelt periodically takes the lead or goes back to check on Alex. The mules (and the Italians riding them) set off later and pass us along the way, near the top. Patrick manages to keep up with them and tells me that it nearly killed him. During yesterday’s descent, we met an eighty-something woman taking her mules to Cabanaconde; she had an enormous bundle strapped to her back and she must’ve been walking for at least five hours, but she wasn’t even breathing hard. We are all very soft compared to the people here. I make it to the top in two hours and forty-five minutes. Roosevelt’s best is one hour five minutes. There’s a marathon held in the canyon every year, with this ascent as the last stretch and last year’s winner made it in just under three hours. Amazing.

As soon as I get to the top, my leg muscles begin seizing up. I just know that tomorrow I’ll barely be able to walk. Serves me right for not stretching. A soak in the hot springs in Chivay helps a little. On the way to Chivay, we make another stop at the famous Cruz del Condor, and see one of the giant birds swoop right over our heads before riding the thermal over the mountains. One of the biggest families of condors lives here, but we’re too late in the day to see any more. We do see the world’s most enormous hummingbird, though.

On the way back to Arequipa I’m so tired, I’m in a catatonic stupor, but can’t sleep, unusually for me. Am digesting my new experience – the canyon, the mighty mountains, the faint ribbons of paths crossing them being the only sign of human existence, the people here living pretty much as they did five hundred years ago.

Roosevelt (who spells his name ‘Roosebelt’, as it turns out) offers to answer all my questions over a drink and we agree to meet at 10pm by the cathedral. I originally regret the decision because I’m ready to drop, but end up having a really good time. We go to Bar 6:16, the posters on the walls a devilish play on movie titles (‘Forrest Damned’, ‘Bad Man’, ‘The Hellfather’) and over a maracuyá sour, he tells me about other good tour companies, good places to eat and drink, his work, my work…He’s going to stay a tour guide for a few years yet, he says, and I get his contact details; he’ll be a good person to know if I come back here, which I hope I do.