Oasis
by Scott KloosI recognized clearly that my path led irrevocably onward, into the limitations and darkness of three-dimensionality. It seems to me that Adam must once have left Paradise in this manner; Eden had become a specter for him and light was where a stony field had to be tilled in the sweat of his brow.
-Jung, Memories, Dreams, and Reflections
-Jung, Memories, Dreams, and Reflections
The bus ride from Chivay to Cabanaconde offers incredible views of the river. Terraces are cultivated to the canyon's edge. We pass through many small villages-Maca, Yanque, etc. all with beautifully restored churches. Most of the houses are adobe with thatch roof, some with tin. At 9 am we arrive at the Mirador. There are about 20 condors soaring overhead, crisp wingsound cuts through the air. The birds land to pick at a carcass in the field below. After an hour they are gone and I begin walking to the trailhead in Cabanaconde.
The hills are covered with yellow grindelia flowers ripe for the picking. A dead burro lays across a rock at the side of the road; it's flesh and eyes devoured. I hitch a ride in a small bus going to a youth group retreat. The kids sing songs from a Catholic hymn book; a few voices rise in intensity to show more passion than the others. One kid tries out his stilted English on me-next year he goes to Disney. I order llama for lunch before heading down the trail. It tastes the way I imagine an old horse would taste.
The sun is hot as I descend, switchbacking my way down the rocky trail. Many cacti, a euphorbia looking plant, some very sweet smelling mint family leaves. The clouds roll in and a light rain begins to fall. I can see swimming pools down below. There are signs trying to entice the traveler to stay at one of three places: Paradise, Eden, and Oasis. "You are on the right path," I read smiling.
It is very lush at the bottom fed by springwater diverted from above. Chirimoya, castor bean, avocado, passiflora, spilanthes, asclepias, etc. I take a dip in the cold water of the pool, get a beer, and join the afternoon futbol game. Millions of dragonflies flit about. Night drifts in. The stars appear and are obscured by mist-fireflies take their place. I chew coca leaves with an Englishman named Eddy. Our talking and laughter fill the night. The canyon walls diminish in size with the darkness. I go to bed with vivid, intricate cartoon visions and dream apocalyptic dreams from the bottom of the deepest canyon in the world.
I wake early. Bees buzz around a nest burrowed into a pole of bamboo above my head. I head out for the other side of canyon, but plants distract me, encouraging me to scurry along a narrow aqueduct to the spring that serves Oasis. From here I make a precipitous climb to an old stone ruin high up on a cliff edge. There are huge aloes growing here. I use some for my sunburns. I also see Santa Lucia that I recognize as an eye medicine from Zapato Norte in Argentina. The descent is not as easy as the climb up but I make it and down to a bridge crossing and continue upward to the other side of the canyon to the tiny mountain clinging villages that hang between their wild random chacras.
I pass through Malaga to Tapay. A llama is being slaughtered while the others huddle against the far side of their corral. Men make adobe bricks for the wall of a new house. People look at me strangely. Entrails hang from a wire to dry in the sun. Some teenagers show me a snake in a bottle. A girl tells me where the local restaurant is located.
I sit across the table from an old man named Lucio. He was born and raised here but now lives in the north where there is more work. He thinks this is the most beautiful place in the world. I have no argument. I tell him he is lucky. He speaks in that matter of fact, old person way, almost yelling, very abrupt with long pauses. He has no time for nonsense, but, time, he has plenty of.
-Yes, lucky, no cars here, he says pointing with his fingers from his eyes, When you walk you see everything.
He has chacras here still and makes the four day trip every year staying two weeks to make sure they are in order and to visit his family. I ask him about herbs.
-Much better than quimicos. The doctor medicine works fast but the sickness always comes back. Used to only be herbs here, but now there is a doctor too. It is very expensive but the younger people use it.
We finish eating.
-Which way are you going?
-Down.
-Vamos.
As we stroll along the path I ask him about another plant that I remember from Zapato Norte.
-That is good for rheumatism. So is this, he points to leaves of molle tree, to cool.
He is bent under a load of firewood. He will work till the day he dies. Someone will come along and strap him and his load to their back and they will take him to the nearest graveyard where he will be buried happy.
-You want a prickly pear fruit?
-Sure, I say as he effortlessly cuts one off with his machete and grabs some leaves which he rubs over the fruit. Then he slices off the top and cuts a lengthwise slit and hands it to me. So easy. I'd given up on trying eat them after getting stuck with the tiny spines all over my fingers.
-That euphorbia milk white sap is poisonous. Burns the skin and kills animals. If you want to kill a dog you put some of the sap into its food.
He stops off at a path next to where the men have almost finished the front wall of the adobe house I'd passed earlier. We shake hands. He wishes me a good trip. I return the sentiment and continue on. A man and his two sons guide a llama herd down the trail to a terraced bowl of pastureland. The wind blows. I leave a few coca leaves for Pachamama at the huaca (a stone pile marking a sacred spot usually topped by a straw cross covered with flowers). It is almost dark.
Back in my room, the rain starts. Soon it is dripping on my head through the thatch. I read and fall asleep.
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