Cajamarca

My feet were killing me.

We'd hiked nearly 1000 meters down the side of the mountain, and all I could think about was yanking off my non-hiking (but cute) gym shoes and dunking my aching arches into the river hidden in the valley below.

A hike sounded like a fantastic idea in theory. Here I was, in the heart of the Andes, all too eager to open my lungs to the crisp mountain air and prove we Coasters can be outdoorsy. But four hours later, my toenails felt like they were about to fall off, and I couldn't feel my hips.

The rocky foot trail strung out ahead of us, while dark-green spines climbed the mountains towering along the other side of the valley. We walked passed grazing cows and crouched señoras, wearing wide, woolen skirts just past their knees and firewood and twin braids strewn across their backs. Old VW vans rumbled along the dusty switchbacks, kicking dirt into the air and onto our clammy, sunburnt skin.The pain in my feet radiated up into my limp arms.

"Are we there yet?" I asked, like a 4-year-old on the way to Grandma's house.

We broke through the brush, a village merging into view.

"Almost." A friend motioned to the opposite side of the town, pointing passed the church and crops to a line of banana trees in the distance. "Just there."

I took a gulp of air but forbade myself to breathe a sigh of relief. The air was lighter, different from the smoggy humidity of sea-level Tumbes. It was hard to catch my breath. My body wasn't used to working so hard, and I felt constantly light-headed. But at least the air was crisp and clean and quiet. No cumbia music blasting from every corner, announcements from town loud-speakers or roaring mototaxis. Just rustling grass and soft-spoken niceties and — holy crap, did I hear water?

The last half-kilometer was the hardest, but then I was putting my red, blotchy feet into the crisp, cold water, and suddenly it didn't matter anymore. I closed my eyes to the sound of the river slapping against the rocks. I felt the silty mud between my toes and the warm sun against my flushed face. I listened, expecting to hear pan flutes in the distance, playing that deep, melodious sound that echoes all throughout the Andes.

We sat there for a while on large boulders along the bank, nursing our poor, sore feet and splashing ourselves and each other. After a while, we busted out our packs and made cucumber and avocado sandwiches with sliced mango and mandarins oranges.

We watched as families made their way to the water's edge and gently, playfully dip toes into the glacial waters. Brave souls cut branches to cross the rushing current. We swatted at bugs and reapplied sunscreen for the umpteenth time that day. I thought of my parents back home and how much they would love it there. Of how much I loved it there.

My friends and I talked about nothing, laughed, made fun of ourselves. Every once in a while someone would start to comment on the beautiful view or incredible opportunity it is to know such a place, to be young and doing this, but they'd stop. It didn't need to be said; we all knew.

In the late afternoon, we munched on apples and read while the sun made its way behind the green giants to the west.

Later, we would get a ride up from the valley, spend the night dancing at a town festival, and wake in the morning practically crippled. But for then, we lay out, enjoying the company and the sound of the mountains.