Se Llaman Portador

No donkies were harmed in the taking of this photo

The porters that trek the Inca Trail, responsible for constantly carrying a grueling load of supplies up and down the rocky pathway, have historically been treated poorly with regards to working conditions, pay, and weight carried. The Peruvian government has, however, made strides in terms of securing limitations on weight carried by the porters hiking the trail--a mere 25 kilos, if I remember correctly (that's still a lot). Their pay has began to increase over the years, making the job much more lucrative than working in their respective villages. Despite the improvements, after spending four days trying to keep pace with them, I know it is a job that I could never do.

Many and most of the porters are campesinos, or farmers, that hail from small rural towns outside of Cusco, where they own and operate their own farms that produce substance not for markets, but for their families. In many instances, they are indigenous people--the last of a living breed in Peru, as the Quechua culture is slowly fading into oblivion. The porters that worked for our trek company were from the small town of Huayllaccocha, a lively and rustic place where all buildings are constructed with adobe brick.

Having the opportunity to spend the night in Huayllaccocha to begin the trek was indeed a little too staged at times, but I honestly think that it helped to spark my interest in everyday rural life. Had I not been there, I'm not so sure I would have ever thought as much about it as I did over the next four days.

I'm not sure why I developed an affinity towards our porter Angel--it might have been because he was the boss, but I think it had something to do with the man's eyes. You see, Angel happens to have the same stern, and at times steely blue eyes, that my grandfather had in his finest hour. He moved the same way as my grandpa too... You could see how years of hard work had hindered his step slightly, perhaps shortening each one a little bit, and yet his legs have remained defiant to the harshness of time. The guy was also pretty nice to me while I was hurling up everything I had inside of me on the longest day of the trail.

Over the four days of trekking, our group asked a lot of questions about porter welfare--How much do they get paid? How often do they work? Why would anybody prefer this to farming? How much weight do they carry? Usually, we received our answers in full from both José our guide, and the porters themselves... More than they could make anywhere else. Four times a month. They get to hang out with their buddies and don't have to farm. They carry 25 kilos, or roughly 50 pounds...

After a long talk with my new buddy Ty in a quiet area off away from our campsite, I learned about the efforts of he and his girlfriend Kelly to raise money for a local school in Urubamba. He told me that they realized you have to do a lot more than spend a little bit of time in a place in order to change the world... So despite the dismay they felt at learning the enormous costs of overhead they paid in order to participate in this program, they set out to use their ingenuity and leave a lasting impression on the school they had worked at. They ended up raising over $2,000 for the school--much needed funds for simple things such as clean water to wash hands.

Hearing their story stirred thoughts through my head, causing me to wonder how I could perhaps challenge myself... I only had a short time in most of the places that I have been or will be in. And though it may be selfish, I realized that maybe the best thing I can do is find ways to add to myself--to learn, to wander off of the beaten path, and to test my character.

Over the next day my thoughts began to gather, and as Angel and a few of the porters passed us by, I felt glad that I wasn't carrying the same weight. It was then I realized how I could challenge myself, if only for a day... I would ask Angel if I could spend a day working on his farm. As we eventually made our way down the hill, I began to feel myself getting sick and weary. Once at the lunchtime camp, I began to unleash my sickness on the Inca Trail. Of course, Angel was the first guy to check up on me. Though one might not think this to be the most opportune time for discussion, I asked him if I could spend a day working out on his farm... He looked at me like I was crazy and I went back to being sick, but we eventually exchanged information which started my journey to his farm.

Yesterday--three days later--I made my way out to Huayllaccocha. I was possibly, and probably, the first gringo to ever work in one of the village's fields. Men lined up to shake my hand--something I still can't understand. I spent the majority of the day howing an entire field by hand, getting worked over by a 70 year old man (Angel's father), who could only communicate with me in Quechua. They let me drink their homemade Chicha--a corn beer of sorts fancied by farmers all throughout Peru--and didn't mind when I stopped every now and then to realize what I was doing and where I was at.

Though it was only a day, it only took a couple of hours to understand why many campesinos prefer a day on the Inca Trail to working on their own farms.