Travel

The past two weeks have been a blur of buses and hostels, canyons and Incan ruins, arrivals and departures and cool clear mornings in new places. Traveling through southern Peru with my brother and the other Young Adult Volunteers (YAVs), I observed and absorbed more of this beautiful and complex country, finding myself amidst surroundings that defy description.

Outside of the city of Cusco were the ruins of Maccu Piccu. It was challenging to grasp the awesome spirituality of the place among our large tour group. But, for once, my camera allowed me a quiet, more centered relationship to my environment. Rather than distance me from real life, the camera lens allowed me to capture light passing through angular rock formations, with a backdrop of green velvet mountains.

We explored another pocket of the Andes, known as the Sacred Valley, peddling along rocky terrain on used mountain bikes. Two young tour guides led us to the archeological site of Moray, a downward spiraling grassy pit, where the Incas developed ideal growing conditions for maize, papa and quinoa (corn, potatoes and grain).

The day of biking felt epic and terrifying. The tendons in my wrists were sore from gripping the brakes as we jolted down cliffs, which often ended with me walking half-way. I felt the extreme conditions of the landscape as I positioned my gaze across a sandy canyon toward storm clouds inching toward us.

As we explored the terrain, I felt like we were on the stage of a grand opera, with a team of hidden crew members continually refreshing the scenery with ever more dramatic features.

The town of Puno offered a mix of genuine hospitality and island culture that seemed to transport me centuries back. The duena of our hostel welcomed us with a cup of mate de coca, a traditional tea of coca leaves that alleviates the effects of high altitude.

After recuperating from the thin air and general exhaustion, we spent a day on Lake Titicaca, 4,000 meters above sea level. The first inhabitants of the lake envisioned the coast line as a figure of a lion chasing a rabbit and named the lake “Grey Puma” in the local language of Aymara.

On the lake we visited a series of islas flotantes (floating islands), where small one-room houses rest on tightly packed layers of totora reeds. The plants are a spongy celery like material, rich in iodine. The residents peel away the skin and snack on the stalks, leaving their teeth bright white against their sun scorched cheeks.

It felt strange to be a tourist, unsure whether the islanders received a portion of our tour ticket. I still don’t understand the system of tipping. And I prefer not to barter for chuyos (traditional wool hats with ear flaps) knowing I’m only paying five dollars to begin with.

My anxiety regarding my tourist identity diminished slightly when I bought hand knit leg warmers at a local artesian market in Cusco. The woman rejoiced in the purchase as it was her first sale of the day. She made the sign of the cross on her chest and thanked me with a large sunrisa (smile).

In Arequipa we entered lower altitude and warmer weather, a city surrounded by snow capped volcanoes and Spanish monasteries. It was a relief to be in one place for more than a couple of nights. We settled in and even cooked dinner in the hostel kitchen one night – grilled cheese and tomato soup.

We took an overnight bus trip to the Canyon del Colca. During the four hour ride we passed through a national reserve where protected vicuna roam – an endangered species of llama with more delicate features and fine wool.

At the highest point of 4,800 meters, we stopped to view the surrounding volcanoes of el Misti and Chachani and the miniature rock piles that locals place at the side of the road as a traditional offering to the mountain gods.

On our tour of the canyon, we stopped at cliff side miradores (lookouts), where ceramic bird whistles and embroidered bags were sold. We waited to view one of the gigantic Andean condors soar up and out of the canyon. Having seen none, I didn’t leave disappointed but felt full of fresh mountain air with eyes wide in disbelief of the geological beauty.

Now back in Huanuco, I can close my eyes and see the mossy green carpet of Maccu Piccu and feel the stinging sun reflecting off the grey waves of Lake Titicaca. I can picture the detailed stitching of the traditional vestimiento of the women in Chivay and remember our dinner conversations after a day of sightseeing.

It’s a relief to unpack my bags and find that returning home to Huanuco does feeling like I’m actually returning home.