¡Hola a todos!

I should precede this blog by advising everyone that it is the second of the day: I finally find myself with ample opportunity to catch up on some much-needed writing!

Cam and I travelled to the Colca Canyon on an overnight bus, arriving in the nearest settlement to the head of the main trail down into the gaping abyss in the early hours of the morning: such transportation, never comfortable, is at least a clever way of saving on a night's accommodation while still undergoing a necessary journey for the same cost of travelling by day. Not only that but, I can also save the daytime for exploring: so it was that we were able to cover the canyon in just two days.

We breakfasted early on plain, airy round disks of bread, jam, butter, eggs and juice. I find these breakfasts the least fulfilling of any I have eaten on my trip (with the possible exception of the dire situation in Buenos Aires, now so long ago) but, it filled a hole so to speak and boosted our morale for the walk ahead. We spent time enough in the local square to buy our lunch and some trail-snacks, then, with sun-cream applied (at 8am!), we embarked upon our route. The trail commenced upon some open flatland, utterly void of remarkable features: this was perhaps beneficial, as it contributed to a heightened sense of awe as the canyon unfolded before us, free from distracting, competing landmarks. The sight was certainly arresting: a stupendous gash across the landscape, halting the eyes and footfall, quite literally. To journey to the facing bank of the canyon requires a full descent to the landmark's floor, followed by the painful ascent of the other slope - a very long, arduous day's travelling at the very least. Cam and I soon began to drop down, following the trail as it hugged the side of the canyon, sloping downward, ever downward. We met few people; among our brief acquaintances were fellow travellers climbing in the opposite direction, utterly devoid of breath with which to mumble even a 'hello', although there was one tenacious soul who even stopped for a swift chat, enquiring about her route ahead and informing us that we had reached roughly the halfway stage in our descent. We also came across locals, often practically running up or down the slopes, including one delightful old lady with a donkey, who greeted us warmly and castigated me good-naturedly for allowing her animal to pass on the wrong side, with it hugging the cliff-side and me perched precariously over the precipice: a lesson well-learnt.

Our journey down into the canyon took us past dusty, rocky outcrops, inhabited by only the hardiest of flora. We were afforded breath-taking views up and down the canyon, following the progress of a stream; a thin ribbon twinkling far below us in the fierce sunlight. We halted often towards the bottom, our brows streaming with sweat, to rehydrate our sore bodies with water - and this was the first morning! Despite the difficult conditions, I was thoroughly enjoying the walk; we had adopted a fairly brisk pace, while having ample opportunity to take in the sights, sounds and smells around us. Upon reaching the lower slopes of the canyon, we were able to view the opposite lower slopes facing us and were delighted to find ourselves looking upon a veritable oasis, the stream - in actual fact a fairly fast-flowing small river - feeding a far greater abundance of vibrant, verdant vegetation than we had become accustomed to seeing during the first part of our trek. The feeling of relief to reach the bottom of the canyon and to be greeted with such a startling scene was akin to emerging from the desert into a like-named oasis, despite the knowledge that we now had a degree of uphill to conquer. I found myself grateful for the odd physical make-up of the canyon, with its surprisingly sloped edges, as opposed to the sheer vertical drops more characteristic of other canyons (including the Grand Canyon itself): the slopes had eased the punishment my knees felt during the descent; now they hastened my progress as I climbed back above the gushing torrent sweeping through the canyon's floor.

The area we found ourselves walking through was utterly delightful. Tinkling streams hurried down man-made channels cut into the slopes, running down into the river below, feeding the surrounding fields as they went. Hulking trees bent over our path, providing much-appreciated shade and pleasing visions of light playing upon dark. Donkeys and horses munched upon blades of healthy grass in fields beside the path, separated from us by stonewall that reminded me of Wales and happy, roving trails. The scene was idyllic, a bucolic enclave surrounded by the harsh, arid landscape of mere minutes previously. I kept a weather eye on the lookout for Pan and his piping music but, I neither saw him nor cared not to; the scene was perfect as it appeared. Climbing ever upwards, through the trees, the sunlight that streamed through the proud branches and the hot, slightly humid air, we puffed along our trail until we had reached a height almost a third of the way out of the canyon. From this point we walked across undulating projections from the main slope, over a roughshod wooden bridge, pristine water gurgling past under our feet.

The hour approaching midday, we began to contemplate our lunch options and decided to halt at the first dwelling we came across offering food. This transpired to be a small hut, clearly a personal dwelling-space that sought to gain from the sizeable foot traffic passing through the area. The owner was a ricketty old dear, bent by countless days of toil, careful in her movements, as with her words. A quick glance around the dwelling's exterior yielded views of a squalid living-space and a pitiful image of a dead fox nailed above a doorway. Cam and I barely needed to make eye-contact wo agree that this was a place we would spend just a few minutes resting and drinking, bottled of course, only. We shared an 'Inca Kola', replete with hazardous 'E' numbers and beat a hasty retreat back to the path. We pressed on, determined that we would stave off hunger until we found a more welcoming location in which to eat. Our destination for the night was a small oasis back at the canyon's floor. Our path to this small miracle took us past three small hamlets - not one of these urban outposts satisfied our eating needs and so it was that we found ourselves approaching the final descent back to the oasis, the hour approaching 2pm, our bellies rumbling above the distant sounds of flowing water. This descent was as steep as the previous one into the canyon initially, with the added fatigue of the day's walking to this point. Still, spirits were understandably high: we were in a quite awe-inspiring location, the walk had been far from over-taxing and the locals that we met on the path along the way had been quite wonderful, without exception; my friendliest experience in Peru, even now.

Approaching the final stretch of trail, we stumbled across an elderly gentleman returning from a day in the fields, his pick slung over his shoulder. He greeted us as warmly as any that day and thereafter broached a witty conversation involving local customs and a fabulously detailed psycho-analysis of the local female population, including their habit of seeking partners able to offer them monetary wealth (I hold absolutely no view regarding this matter, nor its larger flagship discussion, encompassing heavily generalized stereotypes). The sun already beginning to move beyond the upper lip of the canyon, the setting took on the appearance of a crossroad drenched in the light of the dying day, travellers of the road met briefly to pass pleasantries before hurrying on to their respective dwelling-places for the night. Our enjoyable exchange fading along with the sun's rays, we parted company, Cam and I dropping down the final, punishing thirty minutes of gravel path to our destination and a selection of three possible lodgings for the night. We plumbed for the final of the three - quite plausibly you may think because we could not make the effort to retrace our steps back to either of the previous two. You would, of course, be right to think this but, the final lodge was also the best, with comfortable, sturdy beds, a glorious swimming pool and, most importantly I am sure, a kitchen that was still open and willing to feed us within the next hour. Our night in the lodge passed pleasantly enough: it was here that I taught Cam the rudimentary lessons of chess, here that we gulped cool, golden local beer and feasted upon a three-course dinner included in the ten Soles price of the night's accommodation (an absolute bargain).

The following morning, we rose before the sun so as to complete as much of the evil ascent back out of the canyon before the pitiless sun's light scorched our backs. As we packed in the darkness, I became aware that one of my three prized wristbands (bracelets is, of course, a misnomer) that had been with me since home and, indeed, some years before I even left there, was missing. I turned the room upside down but, to no avail. Climbing out of the oasis, the first grey light of day appearing around me, the chill of the night lingering on, I felt a quite inexplicable, completely unreasonable twinge of grief at my loss. Strange yes; almost irrational but, I honestly felt a little piece of me was missing, destined to remain behind, lost in the darkness. These niggling thoughts I carried out of the oasis with me, though swiftly banished to the back of my mind, as the full trauma of the exertions to come broke upon my legs. Two hours of unforgiving climb returned us from the canyon's base to the top and the entrance back into civilzation. Along the way we met a handful more locals, mostly those sprinting past us up the slopes, the occasional soul returning to the oasis, or perhaps beyond, from a town perched high above. We tangled with a stray dog, happy to take an audacious nip at Cam's leg and then continue to shadow us as we climbed, an unquantifiable threat to our rear, for all of which he received a few choice words and poorly aimed stones, after which he desisted in his aggravation. We rarely stopped for breath, content to drag ourselves slowly uphill, a ragged rhythm striking up between our breathing and our footsteps. I pressed ahead, happy as ever to be moving upwards, Cam trailing a little way behind, uncomplaining.

Eventually (although it did not seem to take all that long in my mind, honestly), we crested the summit, where we sat down for a deserved snack of Oreo biscuits and copious gulps of water from our bottles. Returning to the town from which we had initially set out the day before, we walked back through the main square and on out the other side into farmland, tipped off by Seb to a lookout point from which we could - hopefully - observe condors as they circled the canyon in the early morning, hunting for food. Condors are a creature of national significance in Peru: indeed, they are important in Chile as well. Here in Peru, they comprise one of three animals of religious significance to the Incas, representative of one of the three 'steps of life' according to the incan mindset. As birds, they represent the heavens and communication with the gods above: the other two creatures, pumas and serpents, represent the Earth and the underworld respectively. Condors are indeed a visually impressive species, boasting of a windspan that can reach three meters. As we slogged up yet another small rise to the viewing area, I wondered aloud just how we would recognize the creatures of aerial wonder. No sooner had the words escaped from my mouth than two such examples rose majestically from beyond the canyon lip to soar regally into sight. We were momentarily stunned into halting, before pressing forward eager to see more of these sensational birds. Alas, a wall of stone stood in our path: easy enough though timely to skirt, we proceeded to climb over it instead. Here, of course, reward for our impious efforts deservedly struck and poor Cam fell from his disintegrating perch, landing upon a cactus, which retaliated by puncturing his right hand with five needles, none of which thereafter yielded to his efforts to pull them free. So it was that with our condors in tangible view, we turned our backs and were lucky enough to chance upona local guide, who quite wonderfully offered to take us to the town's small, though admirable, medical clinic. I found myself staring, not in wonder at the glorious sight of swooping condors but, instead, at a series of arresting posters, warning against the quite obvious horros of Hepatitus, overhearing numerous references to 'gripe porcina' (swine flu) from those frequenting the centre. Happily, Cam's condition was far from serious, the doctors even sharing a good laugh at my poor friend's predicament before extracting the offending items with the minimum fuss. Cam, after receiving a local anesthetic, felt little and was soon returned to me recovered though without his alpaca gloves, one of which the doctors were forced to cut from his hand to enable a better view of the needles embedded within his flesh: lovely.

We hastened back to our lookout spot, where a little patience and much good fortune yielded a memorable forty minutes watching two huge condors gliding overhead. My binoculars came in fantastically handy and provided us with some beautiful sights of the birds - thanks Dad (and Mum)! We eventually turned and walked back to the town centre, a spring in our previously exhausted step, and caught an early afternoon bus back to Arequipa and more shenanigans with Seb and the locals.

¡Saludos a todos!

David xxx