Getting to the farm....
Not being able to pry myself from the warmth of my hostel bed and with a slight hangover from only three beers the night before, I got a late start as I hadn’t even yet delicately shoved everything back in their respective places. Leaving this hostel in Cusco was more than bittersweet as I had just gotten to know some people who were also volunteering there and would be stickingg around a little while longer; I even contemplated blowing off the farm a few more days…or altogether.
Not knowing the exact bus schedule to Quillabamba, the town I needed to reach, I debated the possibility as I poured myself some of the free, weak coffee and ate at a somewhat leisurely paces. After breakfast I inquired as to where the Quillabamba terminal was from the front desk worker, this morning Sergio, and was informed that it was a quick taxi ride and that buses and vans ran all day but that the smaller vans were a faster, preferred trip, albeit slightly more costly. I said some goodbyes, saddled myself up with my bags before grabbing a cab outside who brought me to the terminal across town where I was dismayed to see that the next bus wasn’t until 1:15 in the afternoon. It was just about 9 in the morning and the last bus had left at 8. I bought the 15 sole ticket for the afternoon bus anyway and began my wait. Leaving my big backpack with the bus company I left the terminal to walk around.
A woman on the street tried to offer me a trip to Quillabamba in a shared sedan which I wouldn’t realize until later was the better option that Sergio was talking about and I had intended to take, but when I checked in with the bus company they told me the trip would take 6 hours, more or less direct, but that turned out to be anything but the case. Meanwhile the vans, I’m told, take only about 5 or so hours. Rereading my email instructions from Sabine at the farm that I had conveniently copied onto my phone for reference, I realized I had somewhat unintentionally opted for the cheaper, longer option of (15-20 sole, 7-8 hour trip) over the slightly more expensive (30 or so soles for 5 hours). Had I caught one of the early morning buses this realization would not have been as much of a concern, but seeing as we didn’t actually shove off from the terminal until 1:45 meant I wasn’t going to get to the small mountain town until after nightfall and from there I still needed to catch a shared car to continue traveling about another hour north to my final destination. I worried that by the time I arrived in Quillabamba it would be too late to continue on and that I would have to stay the night and continue on in the morning.
A woman on the street tried to offer me a trip to Quillabamba in a shared sedan which I wouldn’t realize until later was the better option that Sergio was talking about and I had intended to take, but when I checked in with the bus company they told me the trip would take 6 hours, more or less direct, but that turned out to be anything but the case. Meanwhile the vans, I’m told, take only about 5 or so hours. Rereading my email instructions from Sabine at the farm that I had conveniently copied onto my phone for reference, I realized I had somewhat unintentionally opted for the cheaper, longer option of (15-20 sole, 7-8 hour trip) over the slightly more expensive (30 or so soles for 5 hours). Had I caught one of the early morning buses this realization would not have been as much of a concern, but seeing as we didn’t actually shove off from the terminal until 1:45 meant I wasn’t going to get to the small mountain town until after nightfall and from there I still needed to catch a shared car to continue traveling about another hour north to my final destination. I worried that by the time I arrived in Quillabamba it would be too late to continue on and that I would have to stay the night and continue on in the morning.
Well, what was done was done, so I stopped in a store to buy some pens as mine had run out of ink or simply decided not to go on writing my story and stepped in to a small lunch place a few blocks from the terminal for the best 4 sole ‘menu’ I’ve had. I can’t even imagine getting a sandwich for $1.50 USD in the states, let alone a two course soup and entree lunch meal typically offered with sweetened tea, lemonade or corn-based ‘refresco’ depending on the place. Fully sated, I walked back to the terminal, checked my big pack down below with the other awkwardly large luggage and climbed on board where I found a native, traditional-looking abuela in my window seat I had specifically made a point of requesting. In my broken spanish, I asked her move, making for an awkward 4.5 hour trip (she got off in an earlier town) so that, as the only gringa on the bus, I could hide away in the sanctuary of my window seat.
As it happens, my seat was situated directly above the exhaust pipe from which greasy, black fumes bellowed up regularly, but I refused to let them dictate whether I should close my window or not. I left it open to enjoy the cool mountain air, every so often obscured by the toxic smoke. An old man sat behind me stood regularly during the trip gripping my seat back and occasionally my head…an annoyance to say the least, but all I could think of was the David Sedaris story of his compulsory need to touch other people’s heads and laugh to myself. Sitting on the bus in a pool of all these realizations and having no real knowledge of the place I was heading, that acrid taste of fear and inadequacy began to creep up my throat, stomached only by the somewhat fresh air billowing in my window and the beautiful scenery beyond. Winding up and up into the mountains, we encountered an all-encompassing white fog that blanketed the road and seemed to swallow the bus whole. Unencumbered by this inconvenience, our drunken bus driver continued at a reckless pace and I closed my eyes, unable to acknowledge the direct drop of the now invisible roadside, but of whose presence I was still painfully aware.
As it happens, my seat was situated directly above the exhaust pipe from which greasy, black fumes bellowed up regularly, but I refused to let them dictate whether I should close my window or not. I left it open to enjoy the cool mountain air, every so often obscured by the toxic smoke. An old man sat behind me stood regularly during the trip gripping my seat back and occasionally my head…an annoyance to say the least, but all I could think of was the David Sedaris story of his compulsory need to touch other people’s heads and laugh to myself. Sitting on the bus in a pool of all these realizations and having no real knowledge of the place I was heading, that acrid taste of fear and inadequacy began to creep up my throat, stomached only by the somewhat fresh air billowing in my window and the beautiful scenery beyond. Winding up and up into the mountains, we encountered an all-encompassing white fog that blanketed the road and seemed to swallow the bus whole. Unencumbered by this inconvenience, our drunken bus driver continued at a reckless pace and I closed my eyes, unable to acknowledge the direct drop of the now invisible roadside, but of whose presence I was still painfully aware.
The direct trip turned out to be less than direct, the intoxicated bus driver making random stops all along the way to talk to or pick up friends, delaying the late-started trip even more. After several hours had passed I inquired as to where we were, how many stops were left to Quillabamba ( as there are no announcements of towns/stops/etc and the barely legible signs in the day were becoming obsolete in the night’s darkness, but when asked, the young guy working the bus, who took our tickets after about 2 hours in, said simply ‘not yet.’ Thanks a heap, kid. The locals have no need for signs and even in the dark just instinctively know when to disembark at passing towns or sometimes at seemingly random bends in the road.
Luckily when we reached a closer town of Santa Maria a kind woman across the isle notified me, thinking it was my stop. I thanked her but told her I was continuing on and was reminded how grateful I am for the ‘good samaritans’ I meet along the way during my travels. An older man from across the isle chimed in as well but unfortunately, with a wad of coca leaves pocketed in the cavity of his cheek the size of a golf ball, his speech was barely understandable and I struggled to make even a small exchange with him before cowardly turning my attention back to the star speckled abyss outside the window, not because there was anything incredible to look at out there or that I see at all but because I wanted to appear preoccupied with something else and therefore not seem rude. From what I understood, he basically affirmed that no, we were not yet in Quillabamba and that it was at a lower elevation than the town in which we currently were.
I felt bad because I could tell from the minute he got on the bus back in Cusco he was interested in conversing more, but it was impossible. At 7:20 we stopped again suddenly right in the middle of the road, in the middle of nowhere. I looked out the window to see the driver and his less than helpful friend from earlier poking around the tire well with a flashlight. I didn’t know whether to hope that it was something more serious that would require us all to be stuck together late at night (so that I wouldn’t have to wander in to town alone) or to think that this was just my luck to have bus trouble delay my trip further. I heard them shout some things back and forth though I couldn’t make out just what they were saying, as other cars and trucks blew past on the sliver of road we left unoccupied, unconcerned with our dilemma. One of them dug through one of the luggage compartments below and came up with some wire with which I have no idea what they did, but before I knew it, the big bellied driver propelled himself back in the cab and we took off as rapidly as we had stopped in the first place.
If the trip had been rough before the jumpy bus ride only worsened after their gerri rigged fix and I found my stomach churning as I literally bouncing out of my seat. Usually my stomach manages to hold its own pretty well and so far I hadn’t had any issue on my other buses so far, but this particular driver’s skills left a lot to be desired to say the least and when combined with the up and down altitude changes and back and forth of the snaking turns in the road, I struggled to keep my cool. I think Peruvians must have some of the strongest stomachs out there to put up with such trips regularly. As we turned another winding corner I saw the glowing city lights of Quillabamba come in to view below. Looking out the window I caught a glimpse of the milky way above and found a certain reassurance in its sighting, the last time being a little over a year ago in the good old Belizean jungle. It’s vibrant greens and blues often visible from the desolate old logging road in the archaeology conservation of Belize obscured by the light pollution below.
Luckily when we reached a closer town of Santa Maria a kind woman across the isle notified me, thinking it was my stop. I thanked her but told her I was continuing on and was reminded how grateful I am for the ‘good samaritans’ I meet along the way during my travels. An older man from across the isle chimed in as well but unfortunately, with a wad of coca leaves pocketed in the cavity of his cheek the size of a golf ball, his speech was barely understandable and I struggled to make even a small exchange with him before cowardly turning my attention back to the star speckled abyss outside the window, not because there was anything incredible to look at out there or that I see at all but because I wanted to appear preoccupied with something else and therefore not seem rude. From what I understood, he basically affirmed that no, we were not yet in Quillabamba and that it was at a lower elevation than the town in which we currently were.
I felt bad because I could tell from the minute he got on the bus back in Cusco he was interested in conversing more, but it was impossible. At 7:20 we stopped again suddenly right in the middle of the road, in the middle of nowhere. I looked out the window to see the driver and his less than helpful friend from earlier poking around the tire well with a flashlight. I didn’t know whether to hope that it was something more serious that would require us all to be stuck together late at night (so that I wouldn’t have to wander in to town alone) or to think that this was just my luck to have bus trouble delay my trip further. I heard them shout some things back and forth though I couldn’t make out just what they were saying, as other cars and trucks blew past on the sliver of road we left unoccupied, unconcerned with our dilemma. One of them dug through one of the luggage compartments below and came up with some wire with which I have no idea what they did, but before I knew it, the big bellied driver propelled himself back in the cab and we took off as rapidly as we had stopped in the first place.
If the trip had been rough before the jumpy bus ride only worsened after their gerri rigged fix and I found my stomach churning as I literally bouncing out of my seat. Usually my stomach manages to hold its own pretty well and so far I hadn’t had any issue on my other buses so far, but this particular driver’s skills left a lot to be desired to say the least and when combined with the up and down altitude changes and back and forth of the snaking turns in the road, I struggled to keep my cool. I think Peruvians must have some of the strongest stomachs out there to put up with such trips regularly. As we turned another winding corner I saw the glowing city lights of Quillabamba come in to view below. Looking out the window I caught a glimpse of the milky way above and found a certain reassurance in its sighting, the last time being a little over a year ago in the good old Belizean jungle. It’s vibrant greens and blues often visible from the desolate old logging road in the archaeology conservation of Belize obscured by the light pollution below.
We finally arrived at the bus terminal around 8 where got my bag and used the bathroom facilities there, at a 50 centimos (cents) charge- 20 of which were for the TP offered and not feeling like digging for mine I figured it was worth the fraction of a US nickel. It was late, but I was determined to get to the farm that night instead of having to stay in the foreign city. I grabbed a moto taxi to the carpool terminal to Quellouno where my taxi driver dropped me with one of the last vans making a run for the night, I had just made it. Starving, I checked with the driver to see if I had time to go get food since he was waiting for more paying passengers to fill up his car and make his trip worthwhile. Most of the stalls in the terminal had closed down for the night but one said they still had the meat option so I sat down and was served a slightly warmed, rubbery ‘steak’ with cold, stale rice. Unable to stomach it I paid the 4 soles and left in search of another option.
Two blocks away from the terminal I found my only other option, some beef hearts grilled on a skewer, a typical street food in Peru, not exactly what I was hungry for at the time but it would do. At this point I would have killed for a simple street-cart empanada, but I ordered the beef hearts to go, paid the 3 soles for them and hurried back. At the terminal the van was now full of passengers waiting for me since my search for food had taken a bit longer than intended. In the car I scarfed down the tender, cooked to order beef hearts with spicy peanut sauce and boiled potato that was neither warm nor cold. Still feeling slightly nauseas from the trip, I washed them down with some tropical fruit flavored ‘Sporade’ sport drink.
Two blocks away from the terminal I found my only other option, some beef hearts grilled on a skewer, a typical street food in Peru, not exactly what I was hungry for at the time but it would do. At this point I would have killed for a simple street-cart empanada, but I ordered the beef hearts to go, paid the 3 soles for them and hurried back. At the terminal the van was now full of passengers waiting for me since my search for food had taken a bit longer than intended. In the car I scarfed down the tender, cooked to order beef hearts with spicy peanut sauce and boiled potato that was neither warm nor cold. Still feeling slightly nauseas from the trip, I washed them down with some tropical fruit flavored ‘Sporade’ sport drink.
We headed out about 9 with our van full of mixed destination passengers and I hoped that it wouldn’t take quite the whole hour to arrive at the farm as I was sure that everyone would already be asleep for the night and didn’t want to start out being a late night inconvenience. About 45 minutes passed and it was pitch black when the driver summed me on the side of the road where I searched for my headlamp and wandered off into the wilderness.
Not long after I started up the hill, I came upon a fork in the path where I had to chose which to take. At first I went right but after several steps second guessed it and decided to go back and go left which ended up to be the wrong way. I stumbled upon another farm down this route where I startled the family living there, surrounding by barking, biting dogs. A man told me that Sachahuares was up the hill and that I should ‘follow the PVC’ to get there. 20 or so minutes walking uphill, loaded down with with my giant pack loaded on my back and my daypack attached to my front I wondered if I would ever reach it or if I should simply sleep in my sleeping bag on the leaf-covered ground and wait until morning.
When I finally arrived up at the farm I was greeted by several more barking, biting dogs, a gaggle of hissing geese and even some angered chickens who raised a royal raucous in honor of my appearance. I labored toward the building, which I would later find out was the kitchen, with my load and began to knock and call out. I wandered around the building toward another structure, still calling out when Kieram, the eldest of the 3 young boys emerged from his room, flashlight in hand and led me along the path, even further up the hill, to my sweaty dismay, to the volunteer dormitory. The other volunteers lay in the comfort of their mosquito nets reading as I burst in to the cabaña and dumped down my cargo, barely able to catch my breath. After all my worries and all the excitement I had made it once again.
Not long after I started up the hill, I came upon a fork in the path where I had to chose which to take. At first I went right but after several steps second guessed it and decided to go back and go left which ended up to be the wrong way. I stumbled upon another farm down this route where I startled the family living there, surrounding by barking, biting dogs. A man told me that Sachahuares was up the hill and that I should ‘follow the PVC’ to get there. 20 or so minutes walking uphill, loaded down with with my giant pack loaded on my back and my daypack attached to my front I wondered if I would ever reach it or if I should simply sleep in my sleeping bag on the leaf-covered ground and wait until morning.
When I finally arrived up at the farm I was greeted by several more barking, biting dogs, a gaggle of hissing geese and even some angered chickens who raised a royal raucous in honor of my appearance. I labored toward the building, which I would later find out was the kitchen, with my load and began to knock and call out. I wandered around the building toward another structure, still calling out when Kieram, the eldest of the 3 young boys emerged from his room, flashlight in hand and led me along the path, even further up the hill, to my sweaty dismay, to the volunteer dormitory. The other volunteers lay in the comfort of their mosquito nets reading as I burst in to the cabaña and dumped down my cargo, barely able to catch my breath. After all my worries and all the excitement I had made it once again.
