like potatoes?’ inquired the Reaper.
‘Yes,’ I said, touched by this kindness. The day would end on an upbeat note.
‘And meat?’
Knowing meat was scarce, I said, ‘No, a few potatoes would be fine.’
‘Right,’ he said, ‘see you in the morning.’ No food appeared. He had just been curious about what Gringos ate.
A dog barked all night under a half moon.
Lost
In the morning, two young men walked with me up the hill through fields of beans; a five-hundred-foot flight of clay steps. A little girl in wellingtons skipped up effortlessly, looking back at me with a concern that grew as we rose. When we reached a single-track dirt road they pointed me to the right, and took their leave. Breakfast was the last of my fresh food, one limón, a kind of large, sweet lemon. I made a feast of it, cutting it in half, sucking out the sweet juice, then, remorselessly devouring every morsel of the tough pith. All I had left was dried pasta and soups, but tonight I would be in Achupallas.
Several miles further on than the map said, I reached the turning I was looking for, and followed a little dot of a girl who was hauling three ropes, each with a cow at the other end, up a broad peat-black path. The day was cloudy and the wind began to rise. I was anxious to cross the watershed and begin the descent while the weather was still fair. Some easy walking led over a wide ridge where some trick of the land made an irrigation channel seem as if it was flowing swiftly uphill. I had a brief glimpse of the road zigzagging down and down into the valley below, then a wall of cloud started to race towards me. I picked up my pace, and dropped four hundred feet before the cloud enveloped me like fog. Out of the gloom came a foghorn. Soon I saw a man sitting on the grassy verge holding a rope that looped up into the mist. From the other end, a cow lowed.
Halfway down the hill was Huayllas, the biggest village I ever saw without a shop. As I passed the school, a village meeting broke up to run out and meet me. Theheadmaster, a young and energetic man, welcomed me, and soon I stood in the middle of a hundred curious faces, being interviewed and taking directions. He was frank. ‘The road down from the village is awful. Two years ago, a storm diverted a stream right down the Inca road and stripped it out. When you come to the fork in the road, you must go left; do not miss it.’
I soon found out he was right. It was now a river of loose angular rocks, almost impossible to walk on. Because I travelled alone, spraining or breaking an ankle might be fatal. In an hour, I made little more than a mile. My chances of making Achupallas and its food stores faded with every slithering footstep.
However, the cloud had lifted and I could see the lie of the land. The section of path was steep and narrow, and strewn with fine gravel. Although the drop to my left was not a cliff, I might have rolled myself to death before I stopped, or bled to death on a spike of cactus. Then it happened. Falls don’t start to happen. Suddenly you are already out of control, and the time when you could have done anything about it has already passed. My front boot had become a roller-skate on the pebbles, and shot out straight in front of me. I fell flat on my back, which, in practice, meant on my pack. One arm dangled over the drop. It felt rather nice: I stayed there a minute. Then, when I tried to get up, I had a problem. The pack was so large I could not easily get feet or hands to ground and get any firm purchase. I lay there waving them all in the air like a woodlouse, trying not to laugh so hard that I fell off the track.
I searched for the crucial fork in the road, which led to the only bridge. The trail was now following a contouralong the side of the valley. Up above me, the mountains were now taller, and the sky was growing darker. There wasn’t a house or a hut in sight. I felt the land and the hour were turning against me. I hastened to find the fork,
‘Yes,’ I said, touched by this kindness. The day would end on an upbeat note.
‘And meat?’
Knowing meat was scarce, I said, ‘No, a few potatoes would be fine.’
‘Right,’ he said, ‘see you in the morning.’ No food appeared. He had just been curious about what Gringos ate.
A dog barked all night under a half moon.
Lost
In the morning, two young men walked with me up the hill through fields of beans; a five-hundred-foot flight of clay steps. A little girl in wellingtons skipped up effortlessly, looking back at me with a concern that grew as we rose. When we reached a single-track dirt road they pointed me to the right, and took their leave. Breakfast was the last of my fresh food, one limón, a kind of large, sweet lemon. I made a feast of it, cutting it in half, sucking out the sweet juice, then, remorselessly devouring every morsel of the tough pith. All I had left was dried pasta and soups, but tonight I would be in Achupallas.
Several miles further on than the map said, I reached the turning I was looking for, and followed a little dot of a girl who was hauling three ropes, each with a cow at the other end, up a broad peat-black path. The day was cloudy and the wind began to rise. I was anxious to cross the watershed and begin the descent while the weather was still fair. Some easy walking led over a wide ridge where some trick of the land made an irrigation channel seem as if it was flowing swiftly uphill. I had a brief glimpse of the road zigzagging down and down into the valley below, then a wall of cloud started to race towards me. I picked up my pace, and dropped four hundred feet before the cloud enveloped me like fog. Out of the gloom came a foghorn. Soon I saw a man sitting on the grassy verge holding a rope that looped up into the mist. From the other end, a cow lowed.
Halfway down the hill was Huayllas, the biggest village I ever saw without a shop. As I passed the school, a village meeting broke up to run out and meet me. Theheadmaster, a young and energetic man, welcomed me, and soon I stood in the middle of a hundred curious faces, being interviewed and taking directions. He was frank. ‘The road down from the village is awful. Two years ago, a storm diverted a stream right down the Inca road and stripped it out. When you come to the fork in the road, you must go left; do not miss it.’
I soon found out he was right. It was now a river of loose angular rocks, almost impossible to walk on. Because I travelled alone, spraining or breaking an ankle might be fatal. In an hour, I made little more than a mile. My chances of making Achupallas and its food stores faded with every slithering footstep.
However, the cloud had lifted and I could see the lie of the land. The section of path was steep and narrow, and strewn with fine gravel. Although the drop to my left was not a cliff, I might have rolled myself to death before I stopped, or bled to death on a spike of cactus. Then it happened. Falls don’t start to happen. Suddenly you are already out of control, and the time when you could have done anything about it has already passed. My front boot had become a roller-skate on the pebbles, and shot out straight in front of me. I fell flat on my back, which, in practice, meant on my pack. One arm dangled over the drop. It felt rather nice: I stayed there a minute. Then, when I tried to get up, I had a problem. The pack was so large I could not easily get feet or hands to ground and get any firm purchase. I lay there waving them all in the air like a woodlouse, trying not to laugh so hard that I fell off the track.
I searched for the crucial fork in the road, which led to the only bridge. The trail was now following a contouralong the side of the valley. Up above me, the mountains were now taller, and the sky was growing darker. There wasn’t a house or a hut in sight. I felt the land and the hour were turning against me. I hastened to find the fork,
Similar Books
