Patacancha Village

David, Mike and I went with the local quechuan guide Wither on a day-long adventure up into the mountain communities. It started in the morning with a taxi ride from Ollantaytambo that was over an hour long. We took only one road the whole way, passing lots of fields, sheep herders and cows, but very few other cars. Up and up and up we went, up the switchbacks and on and on. It is the end of the rainy season so the road was very muddy and washed out, narrow with scary steep drops off the side. In fact, at one point we had to get out of the car to lighten the load so we didn't get stuck in the muck, and Wither and the driver walked ahead and asked the road repair crew if they could bulldoze a large section so that we could pass.

We drove literally to the end of the road, winding up in a village called Patachancha. We hiked through the village, which consisted exclusively of grazing land and potato fields. There were no more roads, only animal and human pathways crisscrossing the hills, with manure and ancient lichen-covered rock walls everywhere. The hike was hard due to the thin air and the steepness of the land and we had to stop to catch our breath a lot. We were way up in the high alpine fields, at the last town before the mountain pass and you could sense the jungle just on the other side. There were fields of lupines accenting the landscape with their beautiful flowers, wild creeks and streams all around, and beautiful and unusal heirloom chickens scratching in the dirt. We passed a bunch of traditional houses that had stone walls and thatched roofs, some of which had been occupied consistently for hundreds of years, maybe more.

Wither, our trusty quechuan guide, suggested that we try to meet some of the locals. He said people in this village rarely saw outsiders and they were very hospitable to travelers. So here we are, a group of total strangers wandering around this pastoral little village and we walk right up to a family in the midst of harvesting some potatoes. The soil was black and moist, you could just see how fertile it was. Wither spoke with them in quechuan for a bit and somehow we wind up with an offer of local potatoes for lunch. The farmer tells us he only grows native potatoes and that he doesn't use any chemicals. I wonder just how long his ancestors have been propogaing those potatoes. Whlie the wife and grandmother set to making a fire and boiling up some just harvested potatoes, the father demonstrates to us the tools he uses to plant them. It is the same exact tool we have seen in the museums and in the ancient murals at the ruins. I guess it still must be just the right tool.

The eucalyptus fire is going and the potatoes are cooking. The family invites us into their courtyard and the mother takes out her weavings. The mother and father gather handfulls of plants and moss and explain to us which ones are used for which colors. The weavings are made from alpaca and sheep wool that they have cleaned, carded, and spinned into yarn, then hand-dyed with the local plants and woven on simple wooden looms. It's easy they say, and all I can think about is how many hours go into this before the weaving can even begin. The mother takes out her loom and ties it to the courtyard bench, weaving while her daughter sleeps on her back. They are all so friendly and kind and beautiful and happy. They are dirty in the sense that they are intimitely connected to the dirt. I am jealous of the beauty of their village, of their self-sufficiency, of the peace of the place, of their familial closeness. There is a sense of no-time here and the day stretches into eternity. As is tradition, we give them offerings in exchage for their hospitality - brown sugar, mangoes, pencils.

Lunch is ready - boiled potatoes and manzania tea. Each potato is a different color: yellow, red, blue, purple. I've heard there are hundreds of edible varieties, also many poisonous ones. I wonder at the blue and purple ones and question how many I, a non-native who has not co-evolved with these plants, could safely eat. Or do those colors represent something else, some rare and special nutrient? These are the freshest potatoes I have ever eaten and I suddenly understand their world-wide status as a dietary staple even that much more. After lunch we talk of where we are from, drawing maps in the dirt that surely do not adequatel convey the scale of the world. Before long the language barrier restricts converstation too much, as Mike tranlates our questions to Wither in spanish, and Wither translates to the family in Quechuan. Still, despite the language barriers we are all friends by the end of the day. The father tells us how much he has enjoyed our cultural exchange and gives David three leaves of cocoa to ensure his safe journey home. As we leave I am sad to think that I may never see these kind people again. Or will I?