By Luis, Program Director
We bid farewell to the afternoon, sitting side by side, gazing at the horizon from a small wooden cabin.
Through our moved pupils, we watched as the leaden clouds slowly drifted across the sky, decorating the mountains—immense, imposing, impassive—which, without awakening from their millennial slumber, made us feel their presence in the deepest corners of our hearts. The thirteen brave students, the three experienced instructors, the guide, and I smiled with our eyes, expectant of what we were about to live, while we secured our backpacks, prepared our walking sticks, and finalized the last details before beginning our descent to our first stop, Chiquisqa.
Venturing into the dense mist that blanketed the mountains’ peaks, we stepped one by one onto the winding path that we would follow for more than three hours. Almost immediately, besides the fog, a second companion approached us—the rain. Its presence complicated our descent, forcing us to walk slowly, with great care. At times, our group conversations were interrupted by a deep silence that allowed us, once again, to listen to the whistling wind, which invited us to descend respectfully, feeling the mountain through our bodies. And so, with steady steps, we crossed puddles, muddy stretches of trail, streams formed by the rain slipping through the mountain’s crevices, steep ascents and descents, until we reached our destination. After a brief rest, we ate dinner and went straight to our rooms, lulled to sleep by the persistent sound of the rain, which insisted on accompanying us.
We awoke before dawn, just before five in the morning. In the distance, the mighty Apurímac River roared, telling us that we were now close to its banks. With the first glimmers of light and as the rain slumbered, we set off, hoping to reach our first destination of the day before the sun or rain caught up with us. We rested briefly on the river’s rugged shore. Its waters, wild and untamed, crashed forcefully against the canyon walls, sending droplets flying onto the bridge that connected the two sides. We crossed before eight in the morning and began the ascent to Santa Rosa, where we would have breakfast. Step by step, we carved our way through the trail, showing absolute respect and gratitude to the imposing mountains that allowed us to walk upon them. Slowly, with the weight of our legs, we reached Santa Rosa later than expected. Just as we finished breakfast, the sun emerged to greet us. We refilled our water bottles, lathered ourselves in insect repellent and sunscreen, and prepared to continue our hike to Marampata, the settlement where we would have lunch.
Three hours later, after having climbed nearly 5,000 feet throughout the day, we arrived. The roosters, pigs, and dogs of Marampata welcomed us from afar. Exhausted but joyful, we entered the village one by one. We had planned only to stop there for lunch before continuing to Choquequirao, a two-hour walk away, where we intended to camp. However, the muleteers who had gone ahead informed us that a landslide, caused by excessive rain, had blocked the path from Marampata to Choquequirao. The community members would spend the next morning working to open a passage we could safely cross. That night, embraced by the chill of a rainy Marampata, we camped on its green slopes, from which we could see the surrounding emerald mountains and snow-capped peaks. Together, we watched the sun disappear on the horizon while exuding iridescent colors. Later, under the company of the moon, we cooked, played cards, shared stories, laughed, and finally, drifted off to sleep with the constant patter of countless tiny raindrops falling onto our tents.
The next day, while a group of students prepared breakfast, the instructors spoke with community members to assess whether we should continue with our original plan of a seven-day trek. After a long discussion that involved considering the multiple risks of continuing, we decided to inform the group that, for safety reasons, we would shorten the trek. Instead of continuing the full route to Machu Picchu’s neighboring areas, we would return the way we came and later take the train to Machu Picchu. This would shorten our hike by two days. The students, guided by the lessons they had learned from their instructors and the Andean communities, were deeply aware that, beyond listening to our inner desires, we must first listen to nature and negotiate with it as much as possible. Unanimously, they supported the decision.
Thus, on the third morning, after expressing our gratitude to the people of Marampata for their hospitality and for clearing the path so we could cross, we left for the imposing citadel of Choquequirao—the “Cradle of Gold”—known as Machu Picchu’s sister. In silence, absorbed, we walked through dense vegetation, the sound of birds, the scent of damp earth, the distant roar of the Apurímac, and the fresh breeze soothing the heat of our long trek—all welcoming us to the citadel. Its grand gray stone walls, perfectly placed one atop the other, made us marvel at the grandeur of Inca architecture. Rafael, our guide, explained that this city, one of the last Inca strongholds, may have housed up to 4,000 people and could have been one of the great predecessors of Machu Picchu. Unlike Machu Picchu, fewer than ten people, besides our group, roamed its plazas. We had time to talk, explore every corner, eat, rest, and imagine what life might have been like during the city’s peak, perched in the high mountains bridging the Andes and the Amazon.
Our efforts and gratitude were acknowledged by the Apus (Andean deities), who sent their favored messenger—white-necked like the clouds—the condor. With its wings spread wide, it glided majestically on the air currents, approached our group, and slowly continued its flight until disappearing behind the green mountains. We spent the entire day in Choquequirao. We watched the sun set behind the snow-capped peaks and wondered: how many more sunsets like this will exist? For how much longer will the condors come? How much time remains before the Anthropocene transforms this landscape forever?
On our return, those questions lingered with us. The Anthropocene is here—an era in which humanity, or rather, a small part of it, has become the greatest geological force shaping our environment—and it compels us to ask many things. One question I overheard was: Will the end of the world imagined in the West truly be the end of the material world, or will it simply be the end of humanity? Some argued that the world would end first, others that humanity would perish first, some believed we would invent technologies to survive, while others insisted that technology alone would not suffice.
As we walked back to Marampata and I listened to the students discuss these matters, I recalled my grandmother’s words—a campesina woman descended from Black and Chinese ancestors in Peru—whose wisdom echoed that of many Western philosophers now reflecting on the Anthropocene: “Son, for things to change, humanity must come to an end. I don’t mean that we people must die, but that the concept of humanity that sees itself as superior to plants, animals, rivers, and mountains, must end. When that humanity is gone, something new will emerge, and that new thing will be the change.”
Five days later, in Cusco, I bid farewell to the group as they departed for La Paz, Bolivia, where they are now collecting new learnings with a theater troupe. Although I only spent a week with them, I felt melancholic upon saying goodbye. Despite the brief time, they planted something within me that is now beginning to grow. Getting to know their curious minds, their questions, their efforts to exist differently, and their commitment to learning from people who conceive of human life in alternative ways has taught me much.
And it makes me believe, once again, that there is hope that the sunsets over Choquequirao we witnessed today may still be seen by the generations to come.
(Photos: by Soumya)
