Andean Dawn

In the shy Andean light I ask, "Hay quinoa?"

Busy lives.  But if you have a moment, before the rush of the day begins or as it ends and the busy world is hushed by your quiet sitting with a cup of tea, a glass of wine or milk, maybe you will add my story to your silence, without breaking it.

"Sí. Hay quinoa."

"Uno, por favor."  The cholita pours it into a tall glass.

Standing awaiting the departure of our 6am bus, I warm myself with the thick drink, and ask for my yapa.  I feel an incredible privilege to be greeting the cold dawn in this tiny pueblo at the gate of the world's second highest mountain range.

This morning the quinoa is particularly good, thickened with apple, sugar (but not too sweet as it always is in Bolivia), chuño, and maca--one of the Andes' magical high-altitude everything roots. "It's like Viagra--but viagra for everything" my friend Wilson assured me, as we shopped for our hike breakfasts.

 I give thanks for the hot, liquid, nutritious meal and this woman who woke early to soak the quinoa, to cook the apples, to carry her table and goods to the street.  For no Andean bus can depart or pass by without food sales.

My fellow passengers fulfill the Andean peoples' impressive ability to sleep on any bus, including winding, rocking, bumping, 12,000ft up, antithesis of smooth buses.  I try to decide:  stare at the steeply carved rock walls, or at the mountain view on the other side--with the cliff. 

                                  

15 Cholitas fill the aisle.  All selling the same, but repeating the ritual phrase: "Hay manzana, hay pan, hay palta," as they fall atop one another and passengers with each jolt of the moving bus.  The sun rises to warm the cold cordillera dew.

A few passengers run out the bus door:  another mini rockslide.  They throw stones aside, walk alongside or ahead of the huge rolling machine, toss aside a few more.  No one wants a flat tire on a narrow mountain road in a vehicle so large.  Nor do we need to veer any closer to that impressive Andean dropoff.  Throw a few more stones aside.

We cruise along at 2-10mph, descending through almost every possible climate.  First quinoa and maca.  Now apples, avocado.  Soon sweet cactus tuna.  Then, ultimately, ceviche.  When the conductor asks everyone to file out of the bus (bad road, sharp edge--no one complains about it), I take the opportunity to strip off my layer of down and long underwear.  I know the heat is just around the switchback.  I use the "baño ecological" -- one last time for squatting -- and climb back into the bus, now past the steep danger zone.

As we descend from 14,000ft, 13,000ft, 12,000, 8,000ft, eventually to arrive at zero, Lima, I try to receive the invitation to let my ego descend too--to quit needing to be important, valuable, known.  Rather, let myself be caught in the overwhelming privilege of being human, here among 40 bus passengers, in the friendly chaos of Andean transport.  This is gift: to be here, to be human. 

Baby cows run from the bus, then squeeze against the stone wall on a tight corner.   The driver passes with care.  We encounter a truck climbing what we've recently descended.  One backs up: a spot wide enough for two.  Human beings, working together.  Figure it out. 

I almost forget how pleasantly unique this bus is.  Not cursed by the "luxury" of a television as many buses have (along with their slew of pre-selected terrible, usually violent--despite all the children on board--movies which, at high volume, one becomes obligated to watch). On this bus of campesinos and me, only music plays from 6:00am on, evolving with the radio stations as we descend through altitude-distinct cultures.

Perhaps it is the slowness that I love.  Surely I could descend faster by bike (though the bumpy dirt road doesn't inspire a ride).  At this pace we are not merely traveling together but living together.  I am here, more human than ever.  
We arrive in Lima at nearly dusk.  I search out the bus station (unsuccessfully) for my ultimate Peruvian ride: to the Bolivian border.  I buy an OJ on the street, and catch Lima transport--hauling my big mochila on my lap--to my destination.  Bright lights, packed streets, urban music.   I ask myself if I'll ever return to hike the 6-13 days through the Huayhuash, if for no other reason than to arrive ultimately in Cajatambo and wake the next morning for quinoa and the bus down the mountains with other humans beings—to remember that I am one of them.

All images in this post from the Cordillera Huayhuash, Peru.