There’s a commercial for Puma shoes that plays a lot in Peru. It features a song about “getting high” one gets from the adrenaline rush of running. I don’t run, but I’m getting addicted to the thrill of hiking a huge mountain (metaphorically or physically) and the vibes felt afterwards.
And in Peru, there’s a lot of getting high to do.
Today, it was Lake Paron outside of Yungay, Peru. If Paron is Goldilocks’ baby bowl of porridge, tomorrow , it’s Laguna 69, the Papa bowl of hikes, which requires super-sized courage and a few bowl of Wheaties.
The path to Paron is jagged, almost as tumultuous as the van ride to the trail head. The lake is Aqua Velva blue, the snow caps behind a majestic white. Your ears will get cold.
A variety of folks head to Lake Paron, and not all of them decked out in hiking gear.
I made a friend, Connie, the daughter a resident of Lima. I watched her help her mom up the slope from the lake, her mother living near Yungay. I agreed to teach Connie English. She promised her mom will would me the Peruvian language of kichwa. All I would want to know is how to knit a sweater like that.
I’m glad I brought my gloves and wore more layers than an onion.
And to think a week ago today I was wading up to my waist in a river, watching monkeys steal bananas, not cud-chewing cows
I’m staying at a hostel in Ongo that is actually a home for street kids. The host rents spare rooms. As I returned from my hike with an empty water bottle and muddy polls, the boys were playing a game if soccer. I bought three of the boys ice cream as they helped me navigate my way down to the mountain, taking shortcuts through fields .
No, Ongo didn’t sell t-shirts or water and definitely not cheese. Kozi home for boys/hostel is on the left. I’d rather gaze at this than the headlines. I was reminded what the goodness of people can do without the aid– or hindrance –of government.