Hernan and I have just finished a rambling hike down out of the hills that rise up out of the Urubamba River valley, and we’re standing on the main road.
“Want to go down to the river?” Hernan asks.
“Sure.”
We cross the road, and Hernan asks a woman there about the easiest way to get down to the water. She points the way and begins walking with us, smiling broadly. As we turn onto a trail that runs past her adobe home, her 10-year-old son and 5-year-old daughter join us. Most of the discussion in in Spanish and directed at Hernan, but when she learns I speak un poquito de Spanish she makes an effort to include me as we walk single-file on a narrow path that runs through corn fields toward the Urubamba.
Pointing to a large rock perched precariously from the hills on the opposite bank, she tells us the tale of a woman thief who was hanged there years ago. Her gold earrings apparently were lost during the hanging, and they’re still up there. Somewhere.
The entire time, I’m astonished at how open and welcoming this woman is to the giant Gringo and his Cusqueno guide. And the children are delightful, frolicking like puppies in the fields, taunting as pig we pass and giggling as a cow begins to bellow in the distance.
This land belongs to the woman’s mother and she’s clearly proud of it. After we pause to admire the swift-flowing Urubamba, we walk back to the highway, where Wes and Aldo await in the van, ready to venture onward. I’m not to surprised to find that Wes is surrounded by a group of children, and he’s showing them how to make paper airplanes.
Before we depart, the woman who shepherded us through her fields to the river insists that I return soon, next time with my wife. The children smile and wave as we motor down the road, and I can only hope that I do return one day.