Monte Punku: door to the jungle

A few weeks ago, Collin and I took off southeast to go backpacking, precariously balancing on his motorcycle.  I had Collin's backpacking backpack strapped to my back and he had my day-pack hanging on his front.  We both had helmets and layers, but I still felt exposed and vulnerable to the twists and turns the Andean roads took.

We had initially hoped to go up a mysterious, alluring canyon right off the highway.  We turned off onto a bumpy dirt road and promptly took a spill into the mud.  As we were picking ourselves up and figuring out if the bike was ok, we looked up to see many of the villagers running across their fields towards us.  They spoke among themselves in Quechua, while some of them sized us up with deep scowls and hostile looks.

"Who sent you?" the scowling leader asked. "What is your business here?"

Collin explained we were from Cochabamba, hoping to explore their mountains if they would give us permission.

"No.  Not possible.  No one has permission to go up in these mountains.  We own them and it's not allowed," the man with the scowl responded gruffly.

I was ready to take them at their word, turn right back around and look for a place to backpack far away from their angry scowls.  I suspected they might have more sinister reasons to refuse entry, like a hidden cocaine lab, which is common in the mountains that border the jungle.  Collin was frustrated and wanted to see if he could sweet talk them into trusting us and letting us through.  I won.  We kept heading down valley on the motorcycle.

Finally, we reached Monte Punku, a recognized national park and relatively safe from cocaine activity and angry farmers.  We ditched the motorcycle in a hidden grove of trees and took off up through the potato fields that border the national park, grateful the fields were empty of farmers, angry or otherwise.  We hiked the border of the lush jungle and the desolately dry Andes.

It was unlike any backpack I'd ever been on, hiking most of the late afternoon and evening in swirling mist that rarely lifted enough to see the dramatic jungle below or the dry farmlands of the Andean highlands.  Within minutes we were wet, both from the damp mist that swirled around us as well as the soaking grass and vegetation that reached our waists in places.

We gained the ridge and were met with a harsh, bitter wind, blowing up from the jungle side but with the bite of the Andean cold.  After a couple hours of trudging through the wind, misty rain and tall, wet grass, we decided to look for a campsite somewhere on the edge of the steep mountain.  Darkness quickly approached and we decided to pitch our tent on the only flat spot we'd found, right smack dab in the middle of the trail!

We slept fitfully on the slopey, hummocky hill, dreams of the men with the scowls haunting my sleep.  I woke several times in the night, straining to hear noises outside the tent, envisioning a local farmer with his burro, stopped outside our tent, plotting how to best attack...  I found myself unconsciously praying out loud, turning the words of Psalm 91 over and over in my mind, the familiarity of the words bringing me comfort and putting my mind at ease.

 The next morning, the sun didn't break through the mist until late, and even then it was still just in little snatches that we got glimpses of the rolling valleys below.  We decided to pack up and try to hike through the mist to see what lay on the other side.

We never did really break through the mist, although we reached several summits.  But despite the disappointment of all that climbing and no sprawling views, we came across a couple little treasures in the alpine wildflowers and the wild horses we encountered.  And a little silliness when we were tired and cold helped keep our spirits up.

The rest of the trip down and then home was uneventful, other than my animated attempts to ask for water in Quechua and the 6 live sheep we saw strapped to the top of a taxi, driving down the highway.  Bolivia still holds mystery and intrigue for me, 4 years after moving here.  

¡Que viva Bolivia!