COULD I SEE THAT TRAVEL PLAN AGAIN?

There seemed to be nothing but interminably rising mountains ahead.  Trees and plants succumbed to the altitude and gave way to rock covered by occasional patches of snow on the higher peaks.  Above was a crystal clear blue sky; not a cloud in sight.  The winding dirt road clung to the side of the mountains, carved out of natural pathways that had existed for centuries.  The mountain dropped off precariously into mile-deep chasms to the right of us, just inches beyond the wheel of our car.  The landscape was made up of gray and brown hues with spots of green where small clumps of grass and moss drew scarce moisture from between the otherwise barren stone.  Stone is what stood out the most; stone in the valleys below, sturdy stone houses with thatch roofs, stone fences and stone corrals, small pyramid shaped piles of stone randomly stacked where fields were cleared, fallen stone to be avoided in the road.

Rounding a hairpin corner, we came upon a herd of wooly llamas climbing the steep hillside to escape the intruding vehicles, brightly colored, decorative and owner-identifying ribbons attached to their ears. There were occasional walkers along the road; women with their traditional fedoras, brightly colored shawls and long dark dresses accompanied by men wearing peaked knitted caps with long earflaps to protect the sides of their faces from the bitter cold wind that dropped the temperature to minus-five degrees centigrade in the early mornings and evenings at an altitude of four to five thousand meters above sea level.  We passed freezing ice-blue lakes nestled among the mountaintops.  When we would stop along the way, we tried to keep our exertions to a minimum, as the oxygen-scarce altitude had us panting after only a few short steps, especially if uphill.  Before leaving, we had been provided small bags of coca leaves to chew along the way, alleviating the more severe effects of altitude sickness.  In the villages, we encountered children and adults with their faces burnt and raw from constant exposure to the sun, wind and cold.  The native Quechua language fell lyrically but incomprehensively on our English and Spanish accustomed ears when we stopped.   For meals we were offered toasted ears of corn, spiced dishes of Alpaca meat or “cuye” – whole roasted guinea pig.  We were also occasionally offered glasses of pisco, a strong brandy-like drink distilled from grapes.  We had learned early on to drink only after first spilling a small amount onto the soil as a traditional offering or blessing to the gods.

The group was heading to a small village set among the mountains about a two to three hour drive from the hotel where we were to return that evening.  We were running late, delayed during visits to other villages and projects along the way, so we were a bit nervous about how late we would be getting to this last programmed stop.  There was no way we wanted to be on that narrow winding mountain road after dark (about six in the evening this close to the equator).  But the village leaders had already been informed of our visit, so it would have to go forward. However, we did negotiate a deal with our local partner who had coordinated the visit:  we would pull into town, carry out a quick visit to the site where a group of women were being assisted in the cultivation of pasture grass under a small-scale sprinkle irrigation system, thank everybody, and get right back on the return road.  It sounded like a plan….

We finally pulled into the outskirts of the village where the irrigation project is being carried out at about four in the afternoon.  Our thoughts of a quick escape were immediately dashed.  As we rounded a corner in the town square, we came upon the ENTIRE population of the village waiting for our arrival (they had probably been waiting for several hours).  The mayor and other village officials sat on a dais at the front of the square under a proclaiming “WELCOME HONORED VISITORS!”.  A brass band was playing polka-like rounds.  Groups of children and women in traditional costumes stood to the side, waiting to perform their dance numbers.  We were shuffled onto seats on the platform while exchanging glances of  “Oh Man!  We are NEVER going to get out of here”, as we looked to the slowly darkening sky.  As the welcoming ceremony began, we were pulled from our chairs by a group of women bearing bottles of pisco and tiny glasses, who led us in a traditional waltz.  As we were returned to our seats, the mayor read a little speech and gave the signal for the first of the performances that were to follow.  As group after group of musicians and dancers performed their part, we glanced surreptitiously and nervously at our watches.  

At one point, I slipped off the stage and wandered with my camera to a group of children who were sitting on the curb.  I sat down among them and learned a valuable lesson:  Never! Never ask a group of kids if they want to see the pictures you had taken on the tiny screen at the back of a digital camera.  I disappeared beneath an ever growing pile of children who laughingly crowded around, over and on top of me to get a look at the photos, sunlight and air becoming a distant memory.

The last group of uniquely costumed children was going through their dance number when smack dab in the middle of the routine the mayor, who had picked up on the fact that we were under time pressures to return, signaled to the guy controlling the audio to cut the music.  Frozen in the middle of their last step, the children’s bewildered looks turned to stubbornness:  “Hey, wait a minute, we haven´t finished yet!”  There was no other remedy than to turn the music back on and continue with the dance to its climatic conclusion. 

Finally, we were able to offer some quick goodbyes, thanks, handshakes, farewells, “thank you, yes a pleasure”, “wonderful performances”,  “Sorry, sorry, we really have to go”, as we bowed our way to the vehicles as a deep darkness began to envelope the countryside.  We quickly drove off on our three-hour, extremely scary dirt road journey back to the municipal capital and hotel:  three hours of “Hug that cliff side now…”;  “Watch that curve up ahead…”;  “Is that a boulder in the middle of the road?”, “What are those @!$##! llamas doing there?”

Needless to say, we arrived tired but safely back at the hotel in time for a late supper, a couple of cocktails and, ahhhhh, bed, feeling like tried and true development warriors who had survived….well, survived another day.