We followed a steep, muddy ribbon – that no responsible map maker would include on his map for fear that someone might actually try to take it – fifteen kilometers down into a gash that cut so steeply into the Andes it was as if made by a cleaver wielded by the gods.
Two and a half hours down. Every kilometer taking us farther back in time. At the end of the road… if you could call it that, we arrived in a parallel universe. No telephones. Electricity provided only by waterwheel. Running water courtesy of gravity.
The sign promised trucha fresca – fresh trout. We knocked at the door, intending to take them up on their offer. So far did I feel from the twenty first century, I doubt I would have been surprised if Lilliputians answered our knock. And I was stone cold sober!
But the door was answered by a normal sized human, for this area anyway, and she confirmed the signs offer. A trout feast was imminent.
One of their children was dispatched towards a pond on the side of the house, galvanized pail in hand. He returned a few moments later. His pail filled with fish that were then killed and cleaned in as short a time as it took them to appear.
The trout were cooked over an indoor fire made in an earth filled wooden box that warmed us, when its primary task was complete, while we ate and listened to stories about the way things have been in this small corner of the world forever.
A window looking onto eternity. These are the moments that stick with you forever.
Into Every Life Some Shit Must Fall
Travel is often hard. It marks you. Sometimes mentally. Sometimes physically. Always permanently. But it is the only way to get even a hint as to what it is we’re all really a part of.
I’ve met a lot of people who think, or maybe it’s more hope, planning will keep the pain and discomfort at bay. They pick the places with the best reviews. Eat only the foods they recognize. Speak the language they know.
And they get an experience much like staying at home… with a different backdrop. It’s a lot of hassle just to change the scenery.
I’m a serendipitist. I like winging it. Jumping in and trying to float in the chaos of the unknown is how I make discoveries. Granted… it’s an imperfect process. But you’ll never run into the perfect moment if you’re always trying to keep yourself from having a bad one.
Pull your comfort zone to the side for a chat and tell it to fuck off for awhile. Forever maybe. Better yet, tell it not to call you… you’ll call it. Then take a big bite of what you’ve been missing.
Experience isn’t an arms length thing. Ritz Carltons are the same everywhere. And if your calendar is filled with every tourist attraction… well, you’ll never get it. If you want to be a part of it… to feel the pulse of a place, you’ve got to make yourself a character in it’s story. You can’t do that without doing as little as possible. Sit. Watch. Read. Listen. Drink a beer. Maybe another. And when you feel like you might have an idea of which way the current flows… jump into it and see where it takes you.
You just might find yourself enjoying an incredible trout dinner in the place you least expected to find one