Colca Canyon Tour

Another story based on the experiences of my son Forrest and me during our three months in Chile and Peru. If you'd like to read from the beginning of our adventure, Letter A is where it begins.

 Arequipa, Peru is high in tourism and tour-related industry. For our final week in the city, I hoped that Forrest and I might take an excursion together. I collected pamphlets around the square and comparing them, we liked the Colca Canyon tour. It offered either a day's trip to Colca Canyon or a three-day hike into the canyon. They provided meals, a tour guide, and overnight lodgings with a local family. 

“That’s too planned for me,” said Forrest. “If I hike the canyon, I’ll go on my own or with friends. And we’ll camp.” 

I suggested the day trip. “That way you can see if it’s worth an overnight trip later.” 

Forrest agreed, set everything up with the tour company, and informed the front desk of our early pickup time. 

Since the main door was not open at four a.m. a hotel employee had to arrive and unlock a side door for us. The early hour was to get us to the viewing area when the condors are most likely to be there. Seeing these impressive birds in flight over the canyon was meant to be a highlight of the excursion. 

It was very cold that early. I dressed in layers and wore my long sweater coat over a sweatshirt. 

The van had space for fifteen or twenty. I chose seats halfway back, sitting next to the window and leaving the aisle seat for Forrest. This allowed him to talk to other passengers if he felt like it, which he usually did. 

Our fellow passengers were from all over. We heard German, Russian, Italian, and French as well as Spanish and English. Arequipa is a magnet for global tourists. It is a beautiful, historic city and makes a convenient stop for those going to Cusco and Macchu Picchu. The Colca Canyon, even deeper than the Grand Canyon, is a major attraction. 

After four hours of driving, we stopped in the mountains for breakfast, provided as part of the tour. On each plate was bread and a pat of butter. Coffee or tea was available at a side table. Once everyone had entered and seated, a server came around with a modest serving of scrambled eggs for each person. 

After breakfast, people dispersed and wandered through the small grounds outside the restaurant. Near one of the buildings, two kids in traditional dress performed a dance. They were both dressed in skirts, although one was much prettier and danced more gracefully than the other one.

Back in the van, the tour guide explained that the dance was one of courtship performed by a girl and a boy dressed as a girl. The dance celebrated past Incan history, when protective parents did not want young men coming to the house to see their daughters. To get around this obstacle, the young man would disguise himself as a girl to visit his sweetheart. The parents, thinking the visitor was a girl, welcomed him into the home. It was only after several visits, once the parents got to know him and like him, that he would reveal his true gender. By that time, they were fine with it and allowed the young couple to continue their courtship. 

Our tour guide shared other interesting information as we traveled through the mountains. An earthquake some years ago had damaged many of these hill communities and caused such economic hardship it took years to recover. He pointed out where landslides had destroyed valuable grazing and crop land. 

He explained about sheep, llamas, and alpacas, all of which are raised here, and the differences between them and the yarn woven from their wool. He told us about coca leaves, how everyone chews them for energy, health and to better adapt to the high altitude. 

I had seen the loose leaves in bowls served with hot beverages. When I took herb tea, I always added several to the hot water in my cup. The guide passed a small bag for us to try, especially since we were headed to higher altitudes.  They are dry like bay leaves, and I had no desire to chew on them.

When we reached the viewpoint of Colca Canyon, we did indeed see a few condors flying over the canyon. There was a short hike to a better viewing area if we chose to go. 

Hiking up to the viewing area

Forrest had paired up with an attractive Dutch girl from our van. I walked up on my own since Forrest tended to disassociate himself with me in public. Why would he want a girl knowing that he was traveling with his mom? Understandable and it didn’t hurt my feelings. 

After the condor viewing, we drove further to where the herds of llamas were kept at 14,000 feet elevation, well beyond Arequipa at 7000 feet. Llamas thrive at these higher elevations, the guide explained. 

Upon arrival at the llama pasture, our guide invited us to walk onto the field for a closer look. The animals were peaceful and calm, he said. We wouldn’t bother them or they us. This explained why the people loved their llamas and treated them like pets, carrying the babies around in their arms, and leading full-grown ones on a leash. Once in Arequipa, I walked past a couple maneuvering a llama into the back of a taxi with the rest of their family. 

Llama faces all have that adorable little smile. No wonder everyone loves them.

Llama herd at 17,000 feet altitude

At this elevation, I became dizzy and nauseous and couldn’t walk down to the herd. I wasn't the only one affected. People were bent over vomiting and a few lay on the ground. 

I sat on a rock until I felt well enough to head back to the van. Our guide handed us cotton balls dipped in rubbing alcohol as therapy against altitude sickness. He told me to sniff it, and then he rubbed it on my forehead. Instantly, I felt normal again. 

When Forrest arrived, he said he felt fine, maybe a bit dizzy. I rubbed the cotton ball on his forehead just the same. It surprised me that he had not been affected since he came from nearly sea-level Portland, and I was living in Utah at 7000 feet. But then there were those vomiting and collapsing, so I suppose it affected people differently. 

On the drive back, we stopped at a scenic area near a river, where people could swim in the hot springs or walk along the riverbank. You could go on a twenty-minute horse ride for a small fee. I waited in line and enjoyed a brief ride with a silent, cowboy-ish guide. We clomped along a quiet paved road with a beautiful view of the river below. I could see Forrest and the Dutch girl sitting on a couple of boulders next to the river, talking and throwing stones into the water. 

Finally, it was time to return to the van and continue on down these mountains. As we reached lower elevations and drove through hilly, green fields, it felt like traveling through farm country back home. The well-tended fields of crops, cows, horses and sheep grazing in pastures, with the occasional house with its fences and gardens looked like paradise. I imagined those living in such an environment must be the happiest people on earth. Farm country in Peru was not that different from farm country in the U.S. It had that same well-ordered, peaceful aura. 

Our final stop was in a small town where a buffet dinner was offered at a hotel. Forrest and I wandered in, looked at the price and decided against it. Instead, we walked to the center of town and chose a restaurant near the park. I wasn’t hungry and just ordered a soda. Forrest bought a sandwich and fries. 

After that, it was straight down to Arequipa. 

So, we had done the Colca Canyon tour. Forrest said, "As much as everyone raves about it, I wasn't that impressed." 

I think what most impressed him was the lovely blond Dutch girl. After we disembarked in Arequipa, I noticed the two of them exchanging phone numbers. I smiled at that and thought of the Incan courtship dance. Ah, the circle of life.

Guilty or Not Guilty?

 I have a lovely sister who is my best friend, close in age but as different in personality as two people can be. 

Karen and Jeri (on the right)

She feels guilty for all kinds of things, but I hardly ever do. Unless I do something rude or stupid or mean, then I feel bad and will apologize. But my sister Jeri feels guilty about the strangest things, like reading a book instead of cleaning out a closet. Or skipping a party or event when she is tired.

Jeri has a blog where she posts her poems, and recently she added this one about guilt. Her blog is here if anyone wants to check it out. It is called The Rhythm of Life. 

I'm curious where people stand on the topic of guilt. Are you one who suffers under feelings of guilt even when you've done nothing wrong, like my sister in her poem? 

And what do you think causes this anyway? Why does one person second guess every decision and feel bad when she makes one choice over another? And another (me, for example) goes her own way guiltlessly content with how she chooses to spend her time and resources? 

It is something my sister and I have always puzzled over.

Guilt poem by Jeri Franz

Guilt for sin only, my husband will say.

I laugh and reply, you don’t understand my way!

I feel guilt when I leave grandkids or a place too soon

And guilt when I take too long looking at the moon!

I feel guilty for spending too much time at one child’s place

Thinking I should be with that other one, like it’s some kind of race.

And to take a day and do just what I would like to do?

With no kind of chatter or shoulds blocking my happy view?

Oh my, I can’t imagine but I think that sounds divine!

So one day a week I’ll accept no guilt and I'll feel just fine! 

When I’m shopping at Goodwill or wandering in a store

Instead of chiding myself I will smile and browse a little more.

If I take too long reading or stay a while more on the couch

I’ll smile and accept myself for I am happy instead of a grouch! 

For in this world, the days we are here seem to quickly flee

And I don’t want to waste any more days pitching guilt at me!! 

So at least one day a week and who knows maybe more??

I’ll enjoy each place my feet are, for feeling guilt is such a chore!! 

Bad News and Comfort Food

Another story based on the experiences of my son Forrest and me during our three months in Chile and Peru. As before when I posted daily for the A to Z Challenge, my intent is to make each one complete in itself. If you'd like to read from the beginning of our adventure, Letter A is where it begins.

Forrest and I had made ourselves cozily at home at Estancia 107. We were sorry to leave it. Our spacious room held a couch, three big closets, two queen-sized beds, a makeshift kitchen counter, and the satisfactory routine that comes with staying three weeks in one place. 

The Hotel Royale wasn't as nice. Not as quiet a street, not as solid a building. Noise carried. Our cramped room was up a couple flights of narrow stairs. 

The window looked out on the scenic volcano Misti. Because it also opened to the balcony where other residents passed to and from their rooms, we kept the curtains shut on the lovely Misti. Still, the place was clean and affordable with a professional staff. Tolerable until we left Arequipa next week for Cusco and Machu Picchu. 

                                              The view of Misti outside our room

The hotel offered a free breakfast that we tried the first morning. It was below the ground floor near a small kitchen and so chilly I drank cup after cup of hot manzanilla tea. They provided toast, milk, and a small serving of scrambled eggs for each person. 

After breakfast, I showered and went out to drop off the laundry and pick up a few things at the store. When I returned to the room, Forrest sat cross-legged on his bed with a stricken look, staring at his cell phone. He looked up at me and said, “My friend’s dad just died.” 

“Which friend?” I emptied a sack of bananas and a few sodas from my backpack.

“James,” said Forrest. He shook his head at my offer of a banana.

“James who?” There was James Dickson, but certainly it couldn't be his dad. Casey Dickson was barely fifty. I had worked with him back in South Jordan when he was bishop of our ward and I was Relief Society president. 

“James Dickson is my only friend named James. His dad just died.” 

“What? Casey Dickson died?” 

“Yeah. From a heart attack. Our friend Brandon just texted me. Bishop Dickson was in Idaho when it happened, and Brandon lives there now. I guess someone called him to the hospital to give a Priesthood blessing, but Bishop Dickson died right before he arrived." 

Casey Dickson was too young, this was too sudden. Bishop Dickson had been such a good friend to our family. I cried for his wife Cathy and their kids, several of them still young and in school. 

Forrest and I sat frozen on our beds barely able to comprehend it. We couldn't help but think of our own family a year ago. I was in Salt Lake City then, worrying over my husband, watching for every little sign of recovery or improvement.

“At least Dad didn’t die suddenly,” Forrest said. 

Bruce had suffered an aortic rupture, normally fatal, but he had made it into surgery. We waited through those long hours and rejoiced when he survived the operation. Not yet awake, but alive. It was impossible to sleep, not knowing if he would last the night. 

My daughter Allie, a nurse, said, “Mom, no matter how long or short of a time Dad has, we can be glad it was not a sudden death. Because sudden death is the worst.” 

Bruce fought to survive and improve, although never able to leave hospital care. He died four months later surrounded by his family. 

I couldn’t imagine how awful it must have been for Cathy back home in South Jordan, learning that her husband had succumbed to a fatal heart attack in another state. I felt terrible for her. It was sad and tragic. 

“Are you going to the funeral, Forrest?”  Mentally, I was at the hospital with Bruce, where of course I couldn't attend a funeral. My husband was on the verge of life and death. But perhaps Forrest could go and represent our family.

Forrest stared at me. “Mom, I am here with you in Peru.” 

How strange to have reality shift like that. “Oh, right. For a minute there I forgot where we were.” 

That evening, Forrest and I wanted comfort food. We checked first for chorizo burgers, but our favorite street vendor wasn't there. 

We decided to get salchipapas instead, a favorite of kids and teens in Arequipa. The best place for salchipapas was a little place over by Estancia 104. They nearly always had a line out the door and down the street. Most people ordered to go, although they did have a few tables inside. The line wasn’t too long, thankfully, and we took our plates to sit at one of their tables. 

The cook was man in his fifties or sixties, helped by a plump woman of the same age, probably his wife. She bustled about passing out the orders and bringing her husband whatever he needed so he wouldn’t have to leave his grill. They seemed so happy, like they were living their dream.

The menu was salchipapas, fried chicken, and rice or noodles. Salchipapas are French fries topped with cut-up hot dogs, topped with watered-down catsup, mayonnaise and hot sauce. They don’t sound like much but they're delicious and comforting. 

So the night our friend died, we went for salchipapas and fried chicken.