From Huancayo to the Cunas Valley

Another incredible day, this time with sheep. The objective this morning was to begin to interview former sheepherders, their family members, and fellow community members. We set off early for Usibamba, a small town accessible by a 2 hour drive via dirt road.

The road to Usibamba crawls along the bottom of the Cunas Valley, just a few meters above the Mantaro River. The settlements run right up to the road; in the short drive you can easily see people doing their daily harvesting, planting, and… herding of sheep! Another curious occupation is “fixing road.” The road isn’t maintained by any government authority. Instead, individual people, usually young boys, spend their days filling in potholes or mysteriously, and probably highly ineffectively, digging ditches at the side of the road. They make their money from folks who use the road and hand them some spare change along the way. The real smart ones, though, realize that generosity can only go so far: these guys actually block the road with rocks and charge a tariff to drivers-by.

I am aware that I am occasionally a little generous with the superlatives, but this was the most beautiful drive I have taken in years. We had to stop our car about twenty times because Bob-—the filmmaker I am assisting-—or I wanted to take pictures. And I took some good ones: the rapids pulsing through the valley, a young boy tending to a flock of 10 or 15 furry ones, the green mountains rising up on all sides. Other sights included several Indiana Jones-style basket-on-a-rope-and-pulley chair lifts across the river, and lots of close ups of confused or indifferent livestock.

Right before you reach Usibamba, the road rises out of the valley—-which winds a sharp right, then left-—and meets the valley again a few kilometers down the road. This time, though, instead of entering the valley at its mouth, the road plunges into the valley from its bank. You take one turn, and suddenly the valley opens up before and below you, and you can see for miles and miles.

It is hard to describe what I saw, but I’ll try. Some years ago I spent a summer traveling through Bolivia, writing new chapters for the Let’s Go travel guide series. One night, when I was in the Jesuit missions—-a series of 10 to 15 little villages that start east of Santa Cruz and end just west of the border with Brazil—-I had the chance to check my email, something I hadn’t been able to do in weeks. Mind you, this was the year 2000, and perhaps more importantly, this was deep rural Bolivia, so checking my email was (a) an unexpected surprise, and (b) exorbitantly expensive. Since I didn’t have much money, I had to read through 15 or 20 select emails in about 10 minutes. One email was from my friend Emily, who was working in an orphanage in Africa. As I skimmed it, the part that jumped out at me was her description of the vastness and beauty of the African countryside. She wrote:

"The sky is here. I know that sounds strange, but I can’t find better words to describe it."

The sky is here. For weeks I repeated the phrase in my head, marveling at how these four words, so simple and seemingly awkward, managed to convey exactly what Emily saw in Africa.*

Well, I can tell you that when I made that final turn back into the Cunas Valley, the sky was there. And so was the sun, and the green, and the river. There are moments—-few and far between for people like me who spend their lives in books and buildings—-when you appreciate the bigness of life and the world swallows you up and says “Look at me!” This was one of those times.

So people, please come to the Cunas Valley.

When we arrived in Usibamba we quickly met a man who had traveled several times to the U.S. as a shepherd. His friends got curious about the professorial types and gringos hanging out with their buddy, and soon we had a small crowd of men surrounding us in the central plaza (it was the weekly market day, which meant that there were lots of people in town)…every single one of the men was a herder. The herders I interviewed were stoic, and I wouldn’t say proud, but conspicuously Americanized individuals. You could tell a herder in a crowd by his cowboy hat, or his bright red “Blazers” baseball cap—and his button down shirt, big belt buckle, and Carhart-style working boots.

The men spoke of their loneliness in the hills, and how much they missed their families when they were away. They also spoke of their eagerness to return to the United States and continue working as sheepherders. Remember, these guys are paid $750 per month for working 24 hours a day, seven days a week, live in tents with shovels instead of toilets, and often don’t have a day off for years at a time--and the only thing they can think of is how they can come back.

I want to be clear: this does not mean that they aren’t exploited. I don’t care how wide the smile is on a rancher’s face, or how friendly he is to his charges—-no American employer should pay their employees so little; more importantly, no American employer should be able to deport their employees if they are injured or if complain about their conditions—no employer should be able to exert such total control over their employees.

What this does mean is that these men will do anything to move ahead, to provide for themselves and their families—-even submitting themselves to the conditions that greet them in the states. I think that’s pretty impressive.

My apologies for an entry that is much more preachy than usual, but I am seeing a lot and it is making me think just as much.

Tomorrow we’ll check out one or two more towns, then return to Usibamba for a personal tour of the community president’s sheep and cattle ranch. Should be good stuff.