Canyon De Colca, Peru
The bus traveling from Arequipa is slow and
delapidated. Children, maize and goats cram
the aisle. Outside, the landscape is alien.
Mountains, bereft of trees, launch themselves
from the plains in muted shade of dusty brown.
Their peaks look fake against electric blue
skies.
We are on our way to the Canyon de Colca in
southern Peru, a great crevice in the earth
amidst the towering Andes. In places, it is
an incredible 3400metres deep and until recently,
was thought to be the deepest canyon in the
world.
Arrival
in Cabanaconde After five hours on rocky roads, we
reach Cabanaconde, a village perched on the
Canyon lip. The streets are lined with adobe
houses and terraces carpet the land. We jump
off the bus with shaky legs and I am immediately
struck by the friendliness of the people and
the intensely traditional lives they lead.
I am also struck by altitude sickness. Cabanaconde
sits at a mere 3287 metres, but its high enough
to hit a sea level dweller like a hammer.
My head feels swollen and distended, like
a balloon of boiling water and every movement
requires tremendous effort. I fall into bed
to sleep it off.
The
Canyon
The next morning, my partner and I stand on
the edge of the precipice. 1500 metres below,
the river winds like a skinny green worm writhing
on a fish hook. The bleak dusty canyon drops
suddenly, a steep sided tear in the ground,
and above us rise the inconcievably large
snowcapped peaks of the Andes. Everything
is giant size and we are very, very small.
I eye the downward path dubiously. Its loose
and crumbly and there are an awful lot of
cacti for me to fall on. We set off with trepaditious
hearts and by the time we reach the river,
our legs are floppy rolls of lemonlime jelly,
knees quivering from three hours of slippery
steep descent.
We emerge onto a lush flat embankment strewn
with bamboo huts, swaying palms and all the
tourist paraphinelia you could pack in a brochure.
This oasis is visible for almost the entire
walk, the cool glint of sunlight on swimming
pool luring the sweaty hiker further and further
down the trail till its too late to turn back
and one is forced to spend the night sipping
coconut juice in a hammock. We resist as best
we can, but by the time we drag ourselves
away the sun is high and hot and we are forced
to rest frequently in tiny patches of cactus
shade as we stumble up the path.
Our destination is the village of San Juan
de Chacha, reached by a winding path halfway
up the opposite side of the canyon, traversing
along past a football match and descending
all the way back to the river again. Half
way along, we are adopted by a local family,
who happily show us the shortcuts as we scramble
desperately to keep up. A smiling, rotund
woman watches me struggle with amusement.
Traditionally dressed inl colourful, layered
skirts, she bounces along the invisible path
at an alarming rate, baby strapped in a blanket
to her back. We skid down gravel, rock hop
rivers, balance on the edge of aquaducts and
finally emerge, miraculously, directly in
front of a hostel.
TOP
Climbing
the Canyon The lower southern side of the canyon
is sculptured by cascading agricultural terraces,
fed by an intricately aquaduct system that
has sustained the valley for hundreds of years.
Each of the villages dotted along the path
continue to exist largely independant of the
modern world. There is no electricty, limited
hygeine services and all supplies are brought
in on donkeys. So far, the impact of toursim
has been minimal, resulting in the appearance
of a few hostels, but not changing the essential
character of the area, which remains open,
honest and exceptionally enjoyable. We retire
early to our adobe brick bedroom, determined
to rise early and conquer the steep uphill
slog before the sun hits its peak. But when
six oclock rolls around, I am exhausted from
a night spent vomitting into a prickly pear
patch. I have been hit by the bane of all
travellers - the stomach bug, and it could
not have happened at a worse time: 1500 metres
of
vertical wall looms ominously above me. We
set off while the canyon is still in the shadow
of the ountains, walking slowly, stopping
frequently to drink water, collapse in fatigue
and admire the views. The path, which is much
wider than it looks from above or below, zig
zags sharply up the cliff face. A man runs
up to us, a giant bundle of maize strapped
to his back, sweat pouring off his brow. He
pauses to mutter a brief Buenos dias, adjusts
his load and sprints on upwards. I watch him
disappear and feel a burst of hatred for my
weak gringo belly. As the day wears on, the
sun hits the canyon with indescribable force.
The air is dry, dusty and very, very hot.
The path continues onwards, deceiving us with
false finishes, until eventually, we climb
around the final corner and collapse in the
shade. I look around, at last able to enjoy
the incredible view without a cliff above
me. A condor hovers in the air above us. Under
our feet, fat rollypolly bees squeeze in and
out of holes in the ground. An incandescant
hummingbird buzzes past and we sit on the
edge of the canyon and dream of the ice cold
sprite that awaits us in the hostel.
Keep checking the travelogues for more of
Lani's adventures.
