preference to Aargnngh would be able to help. He pointed and said, ‘That’s north,’ and carefully aligned the map, then told me the road it showed to Achupallas did not exist. He advised me to return down the road I had climbed. I pointed up the mountain where the map road went. ‘There is no path up over that mountain?’
‘No.’
I sighed and continued up the mountain. He had been holding the map with north pointing south. Around the bend was a man face down on the bank, dead drunk. Further along, I hailed three youths riding horses bareback. They could not name any of the prominent local peaks or rivers and when I pointed to the map they did not recognise a single name. ‘You see, this map was made by the military, and when they came to do the surveys and asked questions all day, the people did not trust them. They made up many names.’
I said, ‘Aargnngh.’
I reached a side valley leading in the direction I needed to go. Three separate people told me to follow the left-hand side of the valley. For once, I was getting consistentadvice. At half-past four, I had been climbing or wrestling for the last three and a half hours. My shoulder and neck muscles were sore; I needed fresh food but none of the villages had a shop. Suddenly the only flat land was marsh in the valley bottom. It seemed impossible, but, for the next hour, there wasn’t a piece of flat, dry land large enough to take my little tent.
The sun was down below the mountain and I had been walking for nine hours. There was another half-hour’s daylight. I got to what seemed to be the last hut before the bare mountain began. There was a scrap of half-level ground above it: a man came down. He was friendly enough, but his many children screamed and hid behind their mother’s skirts or ran into the house. ‘The Achupallas road?’ he said, shaking his head, ‘You should have taken the path on the other side of the valley.’ He nodded casually across what was now a steep-sided valley, narrowing like a funnel, difficult to cross. ‘To cross the valley you must go higher.’ I stumbled on. At last I saw a small meadow on a ledge of level land. I scrambled down a muddy path, then was held up at the stepping stones over the river by a donkey coming the other way, belonging to a young couple with a baby. After a minute, when the donkey had neither moved nor drunk, I looked at the father. He lifted the donkey’s tail and shoved three stiff fingers forward. The donkey winced, and moved on. So did I, without giving myself similar encouragement.
The three huts next to the flat land looked like a Stone Age camp. The elderly parents spoke only Quechua, but their teenage boys had learned Spanish at school. I asked their permission before, in near darkness, I began to pitch the tent. When the burly nineteen-year-old crept forwardto watch me work, I stood up and put out my hand, and he ran back towards the huts, petrified of me. When the tent was up, and my pack inside, I tried the stove. It wouldn’t fire. It looked like supper would be six forgotten, dried prunes which had fallen loose in my jacket pocket.
I paused to stretch my aching back and shoulders, glanced west to the edge of the hill and froze in horror. Just fifty yards off, silhouetted against the last light, in a hooded black cloak, was a seated figure with a long scythe over his shoulder. From the shadows of the hood, the Grim Reaper’s eyes turned slowly until they fastened on mine. After a few minutes he rose unsteadily to his feet, and walked towards me. The scythe swung easily in one hand, his lips twisted in a crooked grin. As he came closer one of the teenagers called to him. He cawed like a crow. The cloak was a dark blue poncho; the hood, a loose woollen hat; the man and the scythe were real.
I greeted Death, and made a last request: to die with a full belly. ‘I had fruit and some nuts for breakfast but nothing since. My stove does not work so I cannot cook my food.’
‘Do you
‘No.’
I sighed and continued up the mountain. He had been holding the map with north pointing south. Around the bend was a man face down on the bank, dead drunk. Further along, I hailed three youths riding horses bareback. They could not name any of the prominent local peaks or rivers and when I pointed to the map they did not recognise a single name. ‘You see, this map was made by the military, and when they came to do the surveys and asked questions all day, the people did not trust them. They made up many names.’
I said, ‘Aargnngh.’
I reached a side valley leading in the direction I needed to go. Three separate people told me to follow the left-hand side of the valley. For once, I was getting consistentadvice. At half-past four, I had been climbing or wrestling for the last three and a half hours. My shoulder and neck muscles were sore; I needed fresh food but none of the villages had a shop. Suddenly the only flat land was marsh in the valley bottom. It seemed impossible, but, for the next hour, there wasn’t a piece of flat, dry land large enough to take my little tent.
The sun was down below the mountain and I had been walking for nine hours. There was another half-hour’s daylight. I got to what seemed to be the last hut before the bare mountain began. There was a scrap of half-level ground above it: a man came down. He was friendly enough, but his many children screamed and hid behind their mother’s skirts or ran into the house. ‘The Achupallas road?’ he said, shaking his head, ‘You should have taken the path on the other side of the valley.’ He nodded casually across what was now a steep-sided valley, narrowing like a funnel, difficult to cross. ‘To cross the valley you must go higher.’ I stumbled on. At last I saw a small meadow on a ledge of level land. I scrambled down a muddy path, then was held up at the stepping stones over the river by a donkey coming the other way, belonging to a young couple with a baby. After a minute, when the donkey had neither moved nor drunk, I looked at the father. He lifted the donkey’s tail and shoved three stiff fingers forward. The donkey winced, and moved on. So did I, without giving myself similar encouragement.
The three huts next to the flat land looked like a Stone Age camp. The elderly parents spoke only Quechua, but their teenage boys had learned Spanish at school. I asked their permission before, in near darkness, I began to pitch the tent. When the burly nineteen-year-old crept forwardto watch me work, I stood up and put out my hand, and he ran back towards the huts, petrified of me. When the tent was up, and my pack inside, I tried the stove. It wouldn’t fire. It looked like supper would be six forgotten, dried prunes which had fallen loose in my jacket pocket.
I paused to stretch my aching back and shoulders, glanced west to the edge of the hill and froze in horror. Just fifty yards off, silhouetted against the last light, in a hooded black cloak, was a seated figure with a long scythe over his shoulder. From the shadows of the hood, the Grim Reaper’s eyes turned slowly until they fastened on mine. After a few minutes he rose unsteadily to his feet, and walked towards me. The scythe swung easily in one hand, his lips twisted in a crooked grin. As he came closer one of the teenagers called to him. He cawed like a crow. The cloak was a dark blue poncho; the hood, a loose woollen hat; the man and the scythe were real.
I greeted Death, and made a last request: to die with a full belly. ‘I had fruit and some nuts for breakfast but nothing since. My stove does not work so I cannot cook my food.’
‘Do you
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