Everything started out smoothly. We had breakfast at the hotel in Cuzco, boarded a bus and headed out for the Andean mountains. On the way, we stopped at a llama and alpaca farm where the kids were able to feed the animals and learn how the locals dye wool in order to make beautiful fabrics and apparel.
After our time on the farm, we made our way to Pisaq, a small town located in the Sacred Valley. We stopped in a local market to let the kids do some shopping and to try what Paul claimed were the best empanadas around. Having been warned the night before about the cold temperatures that were in store, we all stocked up on wool hats and gloves. It was fun and laid back… smiles all-around.
The curve ball came at noon, when our bus pulled up to a small turn just outside of Pisaq only to find a Peruvian guard standing in front of a shabby wood barricade. Apparently, the road was under construction, and despite our best efforts at negotiating an exception, the guard would not budge. He kept repeating, “You cannot pass until six in the night.”
Eventually, we gave up and succumbed to the fact that we were going to have to come up with a plan-B. (Sounds familiar, I know. However, this time I am convinced plan-B stands for Plan Brutal! It was the beginning of a very trying day.)
“Brutal” started out okay. We made our way to an even smaller town on the outskirts of Pisaq called Maras. Our guide informed us that Maras had once been a bustling center for commerce during the days of the Spanish trade lines. In the early 1900’s things changed. Trade slowed and people began moving on. Today Maras is close to being a ghost town.
Maras was/is built like a maze. Dirt streets take their shape from 12-15’ mud and stone walls that line (the equivalent of) city blocks. Aside from one street vendor who had set-up in the middle of the town’s main plaza, we saw no evidence of business and very little evidence of life.
Ordinarily a pit-stop in a place like Maras would not have mattered, but in our case, we had been driving for hours and several of us were desperate for a bathroom. Seeing the make-up of the place, I knew we had two options: we could either pee in the middle of the street, or start knocking on the small doors tucked into the stone walls with hopes that someone would eventually let us in.
After scouting for a couple of blocks, we finally found a woman who was willing to oblige. She agreed to let us use her “bathroom” for the equivalent of 15 cents a person, and wow… who knew something so trivial could turn into such an experience.
The woman was several inches shy of 5 feet tall. Her skin was weathered and I am sure she looked much older than she actually was. She led our group through the small, wooden door of her home. The floors were dirt and, from what we could tell, there was no electricity. When you first walked in, you were standing in what I think was her kitchen, storage area and bathroom. Chicken ran around freely, and there were stacks of projects scattered across the floor - like half-husked piles of corn. She pointed towards a small corner… the bathroom. Unlike other areas of the home, it did have a door, three walls and a thin plastic roof overhead. Other than that, it consisted of a hole in the ground. Smaller than an airplane lavatory… no running water.
There were flies everywhere and after you finished you were supposed to fill a red, plastic bowl with rainwater and wash away your “business.” I was the first person to go, and it did not take long for the disgust and desperation to leave and for utter humility and sadness to come flooding in. This is how these people live - every day! I felt guilty for tucking my used toilet paper into my pocket and for holding my nose as I thanked the woman for her hospitality. There was little to say after we left. Life is not fair… a lesson we will come face-to-face with many times on this trip.
After my small crew had used the bathroom, we met up with the others and quietly walked the streets of Maras. On several occasions, we passed homes where wooden poles with blue and red plastic bags hung from the doorway. Martha asked one of our guides what the flag-like poles meant, and her question inspired the guide to run ahead and to tuck into a Maras home. When he emerged, he had a glass full of what looked like frothy beer. He called the drink chicha and told us it was made from fermented corn. He explained that the makeshift flags indicated someone in that household sold chicha. We all tried the mystery beverage. Some were fans, others were not.
(As an aside, we have since learned that there is a little more to chicha than our guide disclosed. The drink is actually made by old men who sit around chewing on corn kernels, spitting the juice into a container, kind-of like you see people do with chewing tobacco. The bacteria from their mouths is what ferments the corn juice. So in reality, chicha is old-man corn spit. Absolutely disgusting!)
After our short stroll around town, our cooks heated up a small grill in the town center and fixed grilled cheese sandwiches and hamburgers for everyone. We also pulled out an i-Pod dock and let Sarah Catherine and Kevin start teaching the rest of the students the routine they have choreographed for our upcoming talent show in Iquitos. Man, talk about people coming out of the wood-works. Before long there were crowds of Maras residents, watching eagerly and singing along to Lady Gaga’s Born this Way. It was a beautiful contradiction of cultures. One of those moments you could never forget, nor ever recreate no matter how hard you tried.
As the time passed and our 6:00pm road-opening neared, we got back on the bus with hopes of being able to head up the mountain. This time, we passed through with no problem, and this is where the real “brutal” began to unfold. Because we were traveling so much later than expected, and the sun was quickly setting, our driver had a very difficult time finding his way. What should have been a two-three hour journey turned into six+ hours of navigating windy, narrow, unpaved roads. We all wanted to cry… and throw up… and cry some more.
When the bus finally pulled into the parking lot near our campsite, we pulled flashlights out of our bags and walked quietly down the rock path towards our tents. Some stayed up to eat dinner and soak in the hot springs. Others, like me, crawled into our sleeping bags and prayed for morning.
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