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STORY AND PHOTOS BY REB STEVENSON
As we sat in the small loft in Cuzco, Peru, waiting for the orientation meeting to begin, there was no mistaking our identity.
We were the "B" team, the gawky kids who don't make first cut on the high-school basketball team and have to settle for the makeshift squad. Not that we were slouching in self-pity. There was definitely some enthusiasm in the air.
It's just that deep down, we knew the "A" team was playing in the legitimate league.
You might think that a plane ticket, halting Spanish and toned quadriceps would secure smooth passage to the seemingly innocuous trail. But due to recent reforms designed to protect the ancient path, even slightly outdated guidebooks fail to inform travellers that there is now a 500-person-per-day limit. Space fills up rapidly, especially in high season (May to September).
Also, the days of those trippy solo mystical journeys into the bush are relegated to flashbacks: today you must go with a licensed guide (there are some 30 such tour operators in Cuzco, the hub of all trekking).
My partner, Jason, and I were one hiking-boot step ahead of that info, but our guidebook said we could easily get away with booking one month in advance for our October trip.
Never ones to feed a parking meter until it's a frantic red strobe, we let the summer drift on by.
So you can imagine the cries of dismay that issued from the computer room each time I received an e-mail rejection from a tour operator come late August. Our airline tickets and days off foolishly pre-booked, the sentence "we have room in November" triggered a sudden spike in blood pressure.
Deflated, we conceded defeat. And it felt infinitely worse than forking out for a parking ticket.
Suddenly, we were staring down a fork in the trail: should we cancel altogether, or consider the proverbial "road less travelled?"
We settled on the four-day/three-night "Lares Trek," with the much-lauded SAS Travel operators. Wending its way through the Andes, it covers different terrain than the Inca Trail, but still culminates atop legendary Machu Picchu. And because there are no restrictions on this lesser-known route, which SAS only began offering last year, it's proving to be a popular alternative for travellers stuck in our situation: in 2004, SAS guided 498 people through the Lares Valley. This year, that number grew to 920.
"OK amigos," our uber-mellow guide Jose said, bringing the meeting to order. It didn't take long to peg this as his mantra of choice.
Jose explained that our 31-kilometre trek would take us through small villages, past rivers and climax at a height of 4,400 metres.
"Oohs" and "aahs" erupted from the group, some members of which had just sweated and vomited through two days of altitude sickness. Cuzco, at 3,326 metres, is already an adjustment for many.
Our trek mates shyly blurted out questions. How physically demanding was it? (Average.) How frequent were meals? (Three times a day plus snacks.) Were there washrooms between campsites in case of intestinal emergency? (Yes, they're called boulders and bushes.)
"Will we have to pay locals to take photos?" I inquired. In Cuzco, everyone from the newborn baby to the wizened old hag seemed to be prostituting their image for profit.
"No, do not give them money," Jose stated. Instead, he insisted, hard candy was the shutterbug's currency in the Andes.
Our curiosity quenched for the moment, we introduced ourselves to the characters with whom we'd be sharing a single "latrine tent." Jason and I zeroed in on one amiable face that bore a striking resemblance to a friend of ours in Ottawa.
To our amazement, it turned out that this chap, Colin, lives not three cities, not three miles, but three blocks away from the lookalike friend in Ottawa!
That was reason enough to celebrate over dinner and pisco sours (pisco liquor and lemon juice crowned with frothy egg whites and bitters). Colin told us he was fresh from a cocoa and sugar inspecting mission in Peru and Paraguay for Ottawa's La Siembra, manufacturer of fair-trade Cocoa Camino products. In other words, he's a socially responsible type.
Early the next morning, we convened in Cuzco's main square. We happily relinquished nine kilograms of gear to the porter we hired for an extra $40 U.S., and hopped a mini bus for the four-hour ride to the trailhead.
After about 45 minutes, the bus rattled onto the shoulder and stopped, overlooking a scenic valley.
"Did we break down?" I groaned.
But Jose and company were erecting a portable table, laying out fruit salad, blue corn jam, bread and cheese. We were to savour our first breakfast on the roadside, with the Urubamba River as wallpaper.
We drank green coca tea, a dense cluster of leaves submerged in hot water. Brewed from the plant that yields cocaine, it's said to reduce the effects of altitude sickness (the healing powers certainly aren't via aromatherapy; the infusion has a wet dog scent with barf-worthy notes of its own).
With an "OK amigos" and a gesture toward the valley, Jose explained that local peasants, with their Quechua language and traditional textiles, consider themselves to be first and foremost Andean, not Peruvian. A breed apart from their countrymen in urban Lima, when their young gravitate to the city they're often mocked and shunned.
So they live a simple life in the mountains as they have for hundreds of years, herding llamas and alpacas.
The bus lurched forward again. When I dared to steal glances through the window -- sheer cliffs, sharp turns and gravel roads had me clinging to Jason -- I spied tiny red patches here and there dotting the arid hills.
They were potato farmers, tending crops not on flat fields, but steep slopes. Peru boasts a staggering 4,000 varieties of potato, and though smaller, they are more flavourful when grown at high altitudes.
Intrigued but still dreaming of that green grass on the Inca Trail, we asked: what locals would the Inca trekkers be encountering?
Jose looked surprised.
Nobody, he said. The Inca Trail is a wealth of stunning ruins and vistas, but it is uninhabited.
That in mind, when we disembarked at Lares to set out on foot, I felt a sense of eager anticipation about coming face-to-face with these otherworldly humans.
We had pressed on for some time through the rocky terrain before Jose gathered us around him, like children at story time. He motioned to a miniscule house in the valley, noting that the thatched roofs need to be replaced yearly.
Down below, a small creature emerged from the mud-brick abode. For a moment it paused, then burst into a mad sprint straight up the hill, slowing only when it reached us.
We found ourselves in the company of a little boy in a brown sweater. His soft round face was covered in dirt, his nose was running, and he didn't seem to know what to do next. Neither did the others in our group.
Jason and I, well stocked with crayons, stickers and strawberry flavoured candies, knelt down and handed the boy the treasures he obviously sought. He popped the candy into his cheek and scampered back home.
The frequency of these encounters increased as we moved on. While the rest of the group, including Colin, surged forward, Jason and I tarried at the back, eagerly doling out prizes and snapping pictures of every last adorable child.
Along the way, we met other life forms: llamas howling on the hills, poisonous orange-legged spiders and stray puppies.
Soon we identified a difference in the children's clothing. Further into the mountains, kids sported handwoven shawls, mostly bright red and emblazoned with mythical symbols like the condor. Peculiar hats topped their heads and sandals were strapped to their dirt-encrusted feet, despite the nightly low at about the freezing point.
We turned a bend and closed in on our campsite for the evening. Our eyes widened.I suppose we expected canvas tents pitched in the middle of a field, but before us stood eight slick domes nestled between two traditional homes. We were spending the night in downtown Huacahuasi, population: 100 at best.
There were no cars in sight; heck, there was no road. Trekkers on the Inca Trail may be seeing ruins of an ancient civilization, but here we were, camping in a living museum.
This is a world where children roam freely like field mice, without the fear that enslaves so many families in North America.
In fact, it was a child's kingdom: men toil in the fields, women are busy in the home and teenagers drift to bigger towns seeking suitable husbands or wives. So overall, children dominate the landscape.
"OK amigos," Jose announced. "If you want to play soccer, we will have a game now."
The men in our group (porters, trekkers, cooks and guides), instantly jogged over to the omnipresent field to engage in a friendly match.
As dusk fell, I noticed a small boy hovering around our tents. He seemed timidly fascinated by the Gore-Tex invasion.
Jason and I followed Ruben home -- about 10 steps away. His big brother, Andreas, was playing outside with a homemade wooden top. The two delighted in launching, then scooping it up with perfect technique, so it would continue spinning in their palm.
This proved harder than it looked, and the boys giggled at our botched efforts at playing the game.
After swapping ages (Ruben is five, Andreas 11) and learning that Jason was 28, Andreas wanted to know how many children we had.
In the failing light, you could still make out his expression when Jason answered "none." Andreas, who has five siblings, looked utterly perplexed.
Returning to our camp, we were treated to a three-course meal that left everyone thoroughly impressed with SAS. Next, we waited outside to use the loathsome latrine tent (a hole in the ground with four nylon walls). We could see our breath in the chilly night air and were embraced by a profound silence. Above us, with no competition from electric lights, the stars shone like beacons.
A leathery Andean woman slid through the bluish darkness like a ghost, pails in hand. When she stopped to fill up at the pump near our camp, I noticed she wasn't wearing shoes, despite the twinkle of frost on the ground. Her feet, hardened, were like hooves.
The following day, we awoke at dawn to steaming coca tea thrust through our tent flap.
Huacahuasi was already stirring in preparation for another long day of work.
Before we headed out, Jose had us pop into Andreas's home. An offering of bananas and oranges served as a hostess gift to his mother.
The woman was barely visible as the interior was pitch black. From what I could make out, animal skins hung from the rafters of the one-room structure. Jose said that entire families swaddle themselves in the fur on the dirt floor.
What resembled a mud pile full of holes served as a stove.
And in the corner, rustling about in a dark nook, a dozen or so guinea pigs awaited an inauspicious date with that very stove. While SAS thankfully didn't force-feed us any cuy, it is the lobster of any menu in Cuzco, and the Andeans have been keeping domesticated guinea pigs in their homes for thousands of years.
As we began our ascent out of Huacahuasi, another beast made an appearance: our first-aid attendant had a donkey in tow.
"It's the ambulance," he said. We laughed. Nervously.
Children suddenly seemed to stream from the mountainsides, emerging from behind rocks and over hills. While always polite, offering a buenos dias and gracias, a few of them had the nerve to request caramellos. Translation: "trick or treat."
Still, we dug into our pockets. Others in the group also fed them cookies, chocolates and other sweets. We noticed that Colin still gave the children the cold shoulder.
The entire day was an uphill climb. The minimal oxygen had me panting with every lethargic step. A wheezing Dutch girl bounced by on the "ambulance."
Sporadic appearances from Andean people were a welcome distraction from my thumping heart. In the middle of nowhere, high in the mountain tops, an Andean woman and child would materialize every now and then. Atop a signature red blanket, they sold handmade wares to our group.
Compared to Huacahuasi, our next stopover was a metropolis: Patacancha is equipped with a public washroom!
A herd of hushed children greeted us. But despite their exotic appearance, all kids have the same zeal for fun. All it took was a game of hide-the-llama doll to rile them up into a frenzy. I hid the llama beneath a tent, under my hat or behind a rock and they searched for it, screaming with delight.
During this game, I happened to glance into a ditch that snaked alongside our campsite.
Suddenly, a garbage truck full of guilt hit me head-on.
A rainbow of plastic wrappers floated in the water ... cookie, chocolate and candy wrappers just like the ones Jason and I had distributed along the way.
Somehow, in the excitement of interacting with the kids, I had failed to process exactly where the litter would go. How could Huacahuasi, without roads, dispose of our urban waste?
And furthermore, by stuffing their mouths full of sweets, we'd become dental demons. Looking at those trusting faces, I felt awful.
The next day, we fell in stride with Colin, who admitted he'd been guilt-ridden since the first step. He couldn't ignore the burning sensation of being "the outsider."
"How 'traditional' will this village really be when groups of 30 to 40 candy and apple-bearing tourists are coming through every night?" he worried.
That day, we paid a visit to a small classroom. Colourfully clad boys and girls grouped in clusters of four sang a traditional song in our honour. Then Jose turned to us and said: "OK amigos, now is the time you can give school supplies." Most of our group looked like deer caught in headlights.
All we had left was a few single crayons and some stickers, which we dutifully passed out.
The hiking portion of our trek drew to a close in the touristy town of Ollantaytambo, where it was back to Coke, street vendors and upper-class tourists in cardigans. From there we boarded a train, spent a night in Aguas Calientes and eventually made our way to beautiful, soulful Machu Picchu.
But after it was all said and done, it wasn't the tropical cloud forest or the ruins that haunted our memories.
The "B" team mentality was erased: we felt like we'd played another sport entirely. And we wouldn't have traded uniforms for anything.
Yet the ethics weighed heavily on our minds and hearts. The kids made the Lares Trek spring to life -- and I feared we had done them wrong. When I stopped to think about it, I realized that a basic game of hide-and-seek had elicited much broader grins than a fistful of cookies.
Candy may be closer to tangible currency, but the exchange of real value was in the moments of equal give-and-take interaction. And they need those teeth to continue smiling.
IF YOU GO
Getting there: Major airlines fly regularly to Lima via Toronto, including Air Canada (about $800 to $2,000 return). From Lima, local airlines such as Taca, Tans and LAN fly daily to Cuzco (about $200 U.S. return).
What to bring for the kids: Do NOT distribute candy. Bring a large stock of school supplies, divided into small quantities to distribute to individual kids along the way and enough for about 20 kids if your trek visits a school. To bond with the kids, bring a world map and pictures of your hometown, a ball or small game to play with, or a puppet to entertain them. If you are concerned for their long-term welfare, why not sign up to sponsor a child in Peru with Foster Parents Plan when you get home? (www.fosterparentsplan.ca)
Where to stay in Cuzco:
- The Amaru Hostal, at $16 U.S. a night for a double with shared washroom, is clean, cute and central and includes a full breakfast; see www.cusco.net/amaru/
- Another popular budget choice is the Ninos Hotel ($28 U.S.), where profits support neglected local children; see www.ninoshotel.com
Where to eat: You'll be assaulted by restaurant reps thrusting menus in your face in the Plaza d'Armas, but it remains the most hygenic place to eat. Get two reps competing and they'll likely lower the price by half. Always ask for the cheap but fulfilling "menu del dia," which they won't offer unless you request it.
How to book a trek: Calling trek companies is a waste of time unless you speak fluent Spanish; e-mailing and faxing is the way to go. The Lares Trek through SAS Travel Tour Operator is $320 U.S., $295 U.S. for students with an ISIC card. Other companies offering a smiliar trek include Enigma Peru, Q'ente Adventure Trips, and Liz's Explorer.
Contacts:
- SAS Travel Tour Operator: www.sastravelperu.com/
- Enigma Peru: www.enigmaperu.com/
- Q'ente Adventure Trips: www.qente.com
- Liz's Explorer: www.lizexplorer.com
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