Dante´s Infernal Auto

We have abandoned the buildings of porous sillar, drawn from the dusty Añashuayco quarry beneath Mt. Chachani. We have left Brian*, our racist Midwestern bleached blonde former boss, and Kelly*, his perpetually fatigued, backstabbing Canadian sidekick who has a Peruvian fiance but cannot pronounce the word "pueblo."
Do I sound angry? I do not want to write too much publically of what happened. I will highlight, though, that John and I were essentially fired after four days at The School That Shall Not Be Named. Their reasoning for expelling us without a second thought after having never seen us teach, never having consulted us about the fragility of our status as employees, was essentially that John was homesick and I had E. Coli.

Brian rather broodingly remarked, "So--you have an official diagnosis?" Yes. I went to the doctor. He tested my blood. Both drawn from the arm and from my limitless sessions in the baño.

"But--don´t we all naturally have E. Coli in our bodies?" Yes, I said, "We also have Herpes naturally dormant in our bodies, but I don´t have a raging case of that."

The violation of trust is enormous, but I do not want to dwell on it.

After passing into a deep and blank slumber, we decided to take a two day tour of Colca Canyon and the surrounding countryside, to brush off the sense of betrayal and failure and to mute the memories of Brian´s abhorrent personality, a complicated mix of disdain for Peruvians, rejection of his own half Native American heritage, and do gooder misanthropy that gave me the heebie jeebies from the beginning.

We went to see Juanita, the frozen Inca maiden who was sacrified on the frozen peak of Ampato hundreds of years ago and has stayed almost perfectly preserved with a pinched, eerie expression of fear on her face. Young girls, it seems, never get it easy round these parts. In Santa Catalina convent, rich families would pay huge sums to have their preteen daughters locked away in order to atone for the sins of the entire family.

Apparently the Incas were the first to tap into the benefits of stem cell research, as our guide pointed out. They believed that umbelicle cords had restorative powers and would feed them back to their sick kids.

But anyway, we were driven by a Quechuan speaking driver named Dante, who, like the literary figure, guided us in ascending and (oh my) descending circles, veering so close to the edge of infinity sometimes that I tore a hole in the seat in front of me.

We passed through the Vicuña territory, through the incredible biodiversity of Peru. Bright green orange blobs of moss, a sharp contrast to the black stones and the icy marshes.

We hiked through the mountains in Coporaque all the way up to some pre-Incan tombs, skulls and bones scattered with Coca leaves, homage by the locals after looters practically destroyed the site. The skulls were elongated by ritualistically placing sticks on each side since birth.

When the Franciscans came around and saw this, they disapproved and would water torture anyone perpetuating the tradition. According to our guide, Oliver, his mouth full of coca leaves and ash, talking slower and slower, going around in circles. "I think he´s had too much Coca," said Murray, the Irish half of a wonderful gay couple living in Milan with whom John and I bonded.

A nice Greek woman suffering migraines, some obnoxious French women, a loud and egotistical New Zealander. A motley crew.

After the hike we went to some hot outdoor springs, a bubbling stew of French and Italian tourists getting borracho on Pisco. The water a mix of salt, calcium, zinc and wealth.

In the middle of beautiful Chivay square, they were having a bonfire when we returned. The plaza was nowhere near the grandiosity of Arequipa´s, but with a marching band playing its collective heart out, and people dancing wildly, I found it much more inviting. Actually, I have begun to loosen my hypochondria at eating, allowing myself to enjoy the sweet taste of alpaca meat, and then carried off my feet to whirl and shuffle with one of the traditional Peruvian dance exhibitionists at our restaurant. The Andean pipes playing a "Let it Be" cover.

The next day we rose at 5am and drove by the virtually dried up Colca river, the powerful force that once carved out the second deepest canyon in the world reduced to a geriatric trickle because of Arequipa's LA-like irrigation needs.

We ran through Pinchollo, which our guide told us is Quechuan for "short penis," which then woke up about 90% of the bus.

In the condor´s swooping haunt, we could see them gliding, surfing the wind, seemingly for the sheer enjoyment of it. Perhaps hunting, but perhaps, like most predators in the world, participating in ritual for reasons that we will never know. One particularly large brown female came so close overhead that we could hear her wings striking the frozen air.

On our way back, I stared at the stacks and stacks of rocks by the side of the road, in the middle of nowhere, each representing a wish.

Having not bathed in almost a week, peeing in a deserted building filled with broken glass on the side of the road, John and I feel free. The shock has given way to gratitude for the strange, roundabout message that we are supposed to do something else.

We are back in Cuzco after several days of regrouping and trying to catch up on sleep and sanity.

I remember that Brian went on and on about how great it was that Arequipa had a mall with a multiplex in it. "Cuzco doesn´t have movie theaters." Well, they do. We just wandered up one of the many cobblestone 45 degree angle calles and found the hidden treasure of a place that screens old movies for the price of lunch.

We had a final dinner last night with our one friend here Ronald, an Arequipan and the only employee who spoke up in our defense at a meeting held when we left.

We´re looking for ways to work while we´re here, before heading back, and at times we can feel frustrated having packed for six months. But I can tell you that it feels good. We are lucky.

*names have been changed for obvious reasons