This article appeared
in Volume 18: No. 4 of the Orient
Express magazine.
Andes Adventure
HRH Princess Michael of Kent recalls how a day trip to the
Colca Canyon in Peru became a lesson in survival.
It was a hot, dusty morning in southern Peru when we set off for
a brief visit to a beautiful valley called the Colca Canyon. Planning
to be away for just a few hours, we boarded a huge, Russian-built
helicopter, sans baggage. We were told that this hulking craft belonged
to the President—not terribly reassuring as he had fled the
country. Our group of 12 included James and Shirley Sherwood, their
son Simon, a young, local doctor armed with oxygen cylinders (in
view of the high altitudes), and Maurizio de Romana—known as
the Man of Colca for his local knowledge and devotion to the preservation
and development of the canyon.
After an hour of flying over a landscape shading from green to brown
and dotted with small lakes that looked like puddles from above,
one of the group announced we had reached 16,000ft. Suddenly, we
were enveloped by mist—our windows seemed smothered in cotton
wool. We were some 40km from our destination when the captain announced
that as he, too, could see nothing, we would have to land on the
mountain. This we did, at a slight angle, surrounded by thick, swirling
fog.
Two white alpaca heads appeared above the mist and examined us.
Then a four-legged grey animal appeared. Without thinking, I cried “Wolf!” When
an Indian with a tiny child arrived to see the spaceship that had
landed on his territory, I realised the wolf was a dog—maybe.
The shepherd was unable to communicate with the pilots, and so he
moved on. Hours passed, biscuits were finished and it was getting
very cold.
Three hours later, the pilots announced they would try to take off
before it became too dark, but at this height, five of the passengers
would have to disembark to lighten the load. Shirley and I were the
only women so I knew we were safe. It is women and children who are
first to be rescued, isn’t it? We were cold in our sandals
and lightweight trousers. Although we had each brought a pullover
and windcheater, we had dressed to arrive for lunch in a hot climate,
not to spend the day freezing and gasping at high altitude. In my
red grip I had also packed my red, collapsible umbrella and my red,
fold-away rain tent. Quel chic in the Andes!
The brave and bold got out, leaving the Sherwood group, the doctor
and me on board. The helicopter rose gingerly while the others set
out on foot. A few moments later, we suddenly landed. The pilots
had spotted a window in the mist showing some miserable huts below. “Shelter,” they
proudly announced. We alighted with a certain lack of enthusiasm
at the prospect of our new hotel, two bleak, low, concrete bunkers.
This was definitely NOT a potential Orient-Express property, I thought
as the helicopter headed back to collect the walking party.
United once again, we approached the coveted shelter: at 16,000ft
in the Andes, the temperature drops dramatically and the torrential
rain felt like needles. Bodyguards to the rescue! The problem here
was not the infamous Shining Path terrorists but simple, efficient
padlocks. After 30 minutes of industrious filing, the locks succumbed
and we entered, bending through a low door. Clean, dirt floors, low
thatched ceiling. Contents: two very basic chairs, one table (similar),
three clean blankets (damp), one skin of white alpaca (stiff and
possibly inhabited), and a poster on the wall announcing that we
would go to jail for 10 years if we killed a vicuña.
Just outside was a small church under construction with walls at
eye level. This was important as there were no bushes to pop behind,
so this half-built rectangle had to serve. I confess (and later did
so again in church) that I felt remorse at so abusing an intended
place of worship, but after so many hours in the cold, my need was
great.
Our group looked a sorry sight. Between heavy showers we ventured
outside to explore. Visibility about 20ft; breathing not great. The
doctor had left Arequipa, his sweltering hometown, wearing just a
white T-shirt and was turning blue with cold. James Sherwood, being
the boss, had managed to bring a small grip on to the helicopter
containing his dressinggown. It was a bold, black-and-yellow-checked,
tent-like garment, that wrapped twice around the slender, little
doctor. Resourceful, young Simon Sherwood had two pairs of socks
in his briefcase (why?) and Shirley and I slipped them gratefully
on under our strappy sandals. The thought of my toes turning black
and dropping off from frostbite kept me dancing around the tiny hut,
forcing my joie de vivre on all.
Most of us had some altitude sickness and became light-headed, if
not queasy. Simon busied himself lighting a fire, using old bits
of paper and damp sticks. It smoked horribly, and the thought crossed
my mind that smoke signals would work were it not for the fog. One
begins to hallucinate at high altitude.
We had used our GPS (Global Positioning Satellite) telephone to
make our plight known in civilisation below. Rescue would surely
come soon. We waited. It rained. Night fell. Would they, could they,
find us without roads and in the fog? Cheerfully we chatted or tried
to sleep, squatting against the walls. (Is this how it was for the
early settlers?)
Our shepherd and his wolf-dog appeared out of the mist. He brought
us a small camping stove with two burners to warm our hut. But, alas, there
was no fuel. Becoming, one by one, like the Admirable Crichton, we
syphoned fuel from the chopper and lit the small stove. Ah! Warmth.
Bah! Terrible fumes. Our mountain man brought a cooking pot and filled
it with snow and ice, which we watched as if it were a soufflé rising.
By 6pm, cold and hungry, our “chalet” lit by one small
candle and the firelight from the stinking stove, we resigned ourselves
to spending the night on the dirt floor. The fog would surely clear
by morning and we would be able to take off—provided we had
not succumbed to hypothermia (it was well below zero now) or been
asphyxiated by the fumes.
At 8pm we saw floodlights shining up into the foggy sky. Vehicles
were on their way uphill and getting closer. We ran to meet them.
Six 4x4s had come to rescue us. Why so many, we wondered, only to
discover that two of them were full of road-building equipment. The
jeeps were welcoming and warm. It had taken our rescuers six hours
to reach us, making and marking a road as they advanced, filling
in great crevasses, moving boulders, fording swollen streams, always
fearful of going over an unseen edge in the fog.
Warm again and fuelled by brandy, we headed on down the mountain
in the 4x4s. It was the worst drive of my life. The jolting, sudden
stopping, swerving and rolling of our slow descent was a nightmare.
Two of the vehicles became stuck, but the four remaining reached
the valley, and we arrived at El Parador del Colca, our original
destination, at midnight. A charming place with an historic Inca
driveway—a descent almost more terrifying than coming down
the mountain itself.
There we were met by relieved friends and a welcoming Pisco Sour,
the local tipple. Henceforth, Pisco Sour will be my designated Desert
Island luxury. Starving, we fell on the excellent buffet: alpaca
stew was a welcome highlight. At 4am, however, I awoke to regret
it.
By morning I had recovered and opened my shutters to a glimpse of
heaven. Double doors from my room led on to a small balcony overlooking
the valley, the soft green of the hills divided by old, horizontal
Inca terraces. Eucalyptus trees dotted the edge of a stream snaking
along the valley floor, and a washed and brushed, fluffy, white alpaca
(I instantly forgot the association) stood ready, harnessed to a
small cart. The sun shone and we were off to see the condors that
circled within the canyon on great 6ft wings.
Later, I had a small duty to perform in the local town—opening
a new, covered market that had been funded by the British Chamber
of Commerce. Still a little shaky after my adventure, I entered a
most unprepossessing, walled building that had only recently been
finished. There was absolutely no one in sight. Wrong day? Wrong
town? No, just Latin American nonchalance regarding punctuality.
As soon as word of my arrival spread, agitated, laughing and magnificently
dressed local ladies arrived. Their costumes were truly splendid,
a cross between Pearly Queens and flamenco dancers wearing red, black
and white, soup-plate-shaped hats made of felt. (Later, I quietly
negotiated to buy one for my London milliner to copy for Ascot.)
Sometimes on my travels I am fortunate enough to meet quite extraordinary
people. Maurizio, the Man of La Colca, was certainly one, and here,
in this tiny, poor village, was another. She was introduced as Sister
Antonia, an American nun who had spent the past 40 years of her life
helping the people of this town. She was so tiny I almost had to
double up to embrace her, but her warmth was so enveloping, there
was no other possible form of greeting. Sister Antonia, with a few
helpers, cooked and served breakfast in four huge, blackened, copper
pots outside the local church every morning. Her tiny frame contained
the most spiritual personality I have met for many years and I shall
cherish her brief friendship and selfless example.
I pulled the string on the inaugural plaque and was given a huge
litre glass of chicha, the local drink. This I was told to drink
down in one gulp. It was a gentle, pale brown, like an iced coffee.
Softly, I asked Sister Antonia what it was. Chicha is fermented maize.
What Sister Antonia was far too polite to mention was that to aid
the fermentation, mouthfuls are taken, swilled, and replaced into
the mixture.
After my Night of the Alpaca, you can be sure I was not prepared
to try any new culinary delights for some time. But 100 pairs of
eyes were watching. Did this gesture signal success or failure for
their market? Much as I was prepared to “think of England”,
I hesitated to spend another such night. I pressed the liquid to
my lips and let it rest there for a while. Mustachioed and smiling
sweetly, I passed the huge glass to Sister Antonia and indicated
the rest of the assembled company should all take a sip from the “loving
cup”. Thankfully, they all joined in. British honour was saved
and the glass was drained.
From Colca we headed on to Arequipa. This was to be a real treat,
travelling by one of the Peruvian Orient-Express trains called the “Misti” —named
after the local volcano. I learned that two of the carriages had
been constructed for the late Duke of Windsor when he was Prince
of Wales and had been accompanied by my father-in-law, the late Duke
of Kent, on a Peruvian adventure in 1931. My husband was thrilled
when I told him: Michael’s father was killed when he was just
six weeks old and any new association with his life gives him great
pleasure.
Arequipa is a splendid, colonial city dating from the 1530s, its
main buildings constructed by the Spanish out of large blocks of
white or pink volcanic stone. Warm by day and cool by night, it has
an ideal climate. An important Inca point on the route from Cuzco
to the coast, it stands 7,500ft above sea level. During our stay
we visited the vast Dominican monastery of Santa Catalina, the great
Jesuit church of La Compania, and marvelled at the architecture of
its main square (which, sadly, was later struck by an earthquake).
By now, it was time to return to Lima. Following my close encounter
with the Andes, flying back to the capital was happily uneventful.
Never have I so appreciated such an unmemorable flight.
|
