Into the Peruvian Andes
by Scott KloosEternity is in love with the productions of time.
-William Blake
-William Blake
A bus ride through cloud mist pastures of forgotten terraces that were once vast food producing areas but now serve as llama grazing land. It is a harsh, rocky, and unforgiving land. The most used up and weather worn people I have ever seen leave the bus here at the little dots of settlement and slowly make their way to huts that stand in the shadows of snow covered Andean volcanic peaks that now and then poke out from behind the clouds.
At the Chivay bus station I am greeted by a little old man, a Peruvian version of my Jewish grandfather, who leads me to the Hostal Estrella de David. It all makes sense. Staying Alive blares from inside a little store as we traverse the main street.
-Do the people here use herbs or doctor medicine?
-Some use chemicals but most people here use Uña de Gato, Boldo, etc.
-And the native herbs?
-Only the people in the mountains use the native herbs.
I settle into my room, make a small prayer, and head out for the hot springs at La Calera. I am distracted on the way by plants-huge cacti in bloom, maidenhair ferns, red poppy family flowers, strange lycopodii-the typical 12,000 ft. tropical desert ecotope. Gold and orange streaked mountains covered with the green of the before mentioned flora rise up to a sky of puffy white clouds and blue. The Rio Colca, which has carved the deepest canyon on earth, leads me past fields of potato, quinoa, and fava beans separated by stone walls on whose tops are planted long spined cacti to keep animals out. I pass colorfully garbed indigenous men and women leading their cows, sheep, mules, and llamas back from a day of grazing in the mountains. I finally make it to the hot spring complex, and sit soaking, staring down the canyon as the day pinkens purple into dusk and marvel at the grand display of distant thunderless lightning flashes that fill the sky.
I walk the 5 km back to town in the total peace of a dark night flowing along the road with the sound of the river on my right. My eyes play tricks. Lightning flashes. I stop to breathe deeply of the clean, pure air. Closed eye visions of horseback riders with bows and arrows and a view from within a cave looking out at a vast mountain landscape fill my head. The clicking of hooves on cobblestone reverberates as I pass an old man hobbling behind his 3 mules.
-buenas noches
-bweeeeenas noches, he replies
As I amble up the main dirt street to the plaza, mutterings of Quechua form the dark doorways. I approach the market where vendors sell herb tea with splashes of previously decocted and honey sweetened uña de gato, boldo, lime, or alfalfa from bottles mixed with cups that are methodically dipped from pots of tea simmering with large bundles of cola de caballo (horsetail,) manzanilla (chamomile,) tiki-tiki, and others. I drink 2 glasses and talk to the women about the uses of herbs.
It is dinner time. I'm not that hungry but I go out anyway for a trout dinner. I haven't eaten a really good meal in a while. On the way to the restaurant I start feeling cold-little shivers run through my body. Not ten minutes ago I felt like a champ on top of the world. When I sit down at the table in the restaurant, the shivers increase. My fingertips are numb.
-Do you feel cold?, I ask the waitress.
-No.
I order my meal and begin to feel worse. I am shaking uncontrollably.
-Is shivering a sign of soroche (altitude sickness)?
She smiles and nods; returns after what seems an agonizingly long time with a cup of coca tea. I drink some and try to eat but the nausea comes. I take my food to go. There is confusion. I assure the waitress that the food was fine but that I am feeling very ill.
I make it back to the room. All I can do is take shoes off and drag self under heavy woolen blankets which smell like mule. The light burns into my skull. I try to hide under the blankets but can't get any air. My breathing is shallow and labored. Haul myself up for some water but can only get a few gulps down. Heart pounds rapidly. Head throbs, veins ready to burst. Face on fire. My mind is clear but still I feel as though I could die. I chew a piece of Ligusticum root. Breathing improves. A cool wet bandana on the head and I drift into fitful sleep filled with usual sick dreams of incessant movement seeking a confluence of energy flow. A constant roaming of country side trying to establish something. I strike out in a certain direction at a certain angle relative to something and things flourish. I try to recreate these peregrinations. Sometimes I am successful but mostly it leads only to unfruitful wandering. My body is realigning itself in a meta village life played out in old style video game like fashion. I explain to someone that I am creating wealth and worth wherever I go but that I seek nothing in return even though I spend my entire life energy in this pursuit. It isn't charity, it's what I have to do. There is no alternative.
When I wake in the morning I am glad to be alive. I feel a bit hangovery but I am semi- mobile. I do a few things and then lie in bed for a while longer before heading out into the world.
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