Up bright and early, we meet our guide and climb into a van to be transported to the first of two main sites for our day tour, namely the 'Ciudad de Inta'. Ciudad means 'City'. An 'Ita', if my Spanish translation serves me correctly, is the Kechwa word for a parasite which lives within the skin of human, though more commonly animals. I believe that the strange, cellular type patterns in the rock may have been in some way cause by the Ita, hence the name.
As we walk, and in many places, as we climb, our guide points out various animal shaped rocks.
"Here - a huge elephant...there, see the tortoise? Here is his nose...and his shell..and there, you see the fish?"
As these things I am very impressed by the actual resemblance of these rock formations to the animals. The tortoise, especially, is very clear. I start to wonder whether there might be some natural balance of shapes, which somehow means that rock formations mirror the shapes of creatures, or vice versa, given how commonly we see this kind of phenomenon. It's hard to say, and perhaps more likely that our human minds simply automatically find patterns in the landscapes, much the same way as we create monsters out of shadows and make sense of text which omits vowels, and so on and so forth. That, rather pedestrian explanation doesn't appeal to me as much however, especially later when, in the cavern, we come across two stalacmites which our guide names, 'the Madonna and Child'.
"That," says M to me, "is the Madonna and Child. Apparently."
We both look sceptically at it until, perhaps sensing our lack of conviction, our guide points to the smaller one.
"You see? There is the baby's nose, and his eyes..."
He has barely began speaking however, when the whole group suddenly sees it. In the otherwise rough stalacmite surface, there is a perfectly smooth, perfectly white face. It is as if it had been carved, perfectly done. The eyes, nose and mouth all eerily baby like. It's a little bit scary. Coincidence? Maybe. Trickery? Perhaps. But if someone did carve that in by hand I must say it remains pretty impressive.
More about the cavern later. In the meantime we continue to walk and scramble our way around the Ciudad de Ita. It is beautiful. The views out across the mountain range are amazing, with that same blue, white tinge to the mountain ranges on the horizon, made surreal by the smog. The rock faces have been carved and painted and polished by water, lava, creatures and time and it strikes me, not for the first time, how beautiful the process of damage, essentially what erosion is, can render a landscape. Were the rocks more or less beautiful before that happened? Was it some kind of Eden, an echo of which is all we see now? Or are rocks themselves, being formed only through the process of erosion, and thus existing only because of the ongoing state of decay to which all things on earth must fall? If beauty is caused by damage, perhaps humankind would do well to redefine its, currently rather negative, perception of ageing.
I climb around, largely without either panic or incident, apart from one place in which we are casually asked to climb a rickety ladder attached to the rocks by a wire, transfer to a second rickety ladder and then scramble directly up the rock face onto a ledge above. I handle both ladders with white knuckles, gritted teeth and an attempt, even with my knees, to hold onto the ladder. But letting go of the second ladder to scramble up the rock face is too much. I freeze for a moment, emitting small and quite embarrassing mewing noises, and it is the patience of the guide telling me to be 'mas tranquil' (more calm), and that 'todas bien' (everything is fine), along with some fairly firm pointing out of the hollows and hooks in which to plant my feet. There is also a sympathetic outstretched arm from M, who has scrambled up ahead of me. I manage to get up in the end without it, as a matter of personal pride, but I am still deeply grateful, and deeply reassured by the presence of that hand, whether I use it or otherwise.
Fear is a strange thing. It is, in these instances, a deeply uncomfortable sensation, with nothing in it to soften it, or to recommend it as a desired state. But something about it,, perhaps the associated adrenaline, perhaps the sense of triumph afterwards, or the sensation that you are in mortal danger and therefore may be seeing all this for the final time - but landscapes do somehow become more amazing when you've had such a fear filled encounter with them. Maybe it is the fear itself which lifts the status of a view from something 'bonito', (pretty) to something 'bellisimo'.
This is particularly true of our afternoon tour, to the cavern.
Entering a cavern in Bolivia to view stalacmites, stalactites and underwater lakes, is not a case of donning a hard hat and following a wooden walking path, with lights.
It involves descending 110 metres into the earth by climbing. As we begin, dread starts to take over and that delicate balance between thrill and terror, tips. I am standing in a hard hat at the entrance to a cave which the guide has just told me requires me to descend at least 8 metres purely with the aid of a rope.
My imagination paints a lurid picture in which I have to abseil down a vast hole, 110 metres deep, in pitch darkness, and if I let go of the rope, I will die.
"Es peligroso?" (Is it dangerous?) I ask, hoping for reassurance.
"Yes," says our guide, "very dangerous. And slippery."
"Isn't this cool?" says M as we pick our way gingerly over boulders by the light of the torches attached to our helmets.
"No." I say miserably, "for a person scared of heights this is my worst nightmare. I don't know if I can do this."
Sensibly, M doesn't react other than to point out, gently, that I do not have to do it at all, and could simply wait at the mouth of the cavern for our party to re-emerge.
But I'm not about to do that. I have, in this journey, faced many things, particularly in respect to heights, which have me nearly paralysed with fear. But I have always faced them. I haven't opted out of anything yet. And we are 8 months in. I'm not going to start now.
In reality of course, as is the case with all fears, the situation is nowhere near as perilous as I had imagined. We do indeed descend in pitch black by our own hands, feet and, increasingly, bottoms, but there is light from our helmets and, whilst the rock is slippery, it is also a tight cave, and I can grip wall and ceiling as well as floor. Also, we never face one enormous drop, but simply clamber from one, 2 to 3 metre height down into the next chamber and then, separately, another.
In fact, I start to rather enjoy it. By the time we have descended all 110 metres, viewed the fish in the underground lake and clambered back up again, I am thinking rather fondly about caving. I find the small spaces, for some claustrophobic, rather comforting, especially when dealing with heights.
There are only two discrete moments when I find myself properly shaking with terror and sweating so much I think I will fall for the sheer slipperyness of my hands. Both involve a rope, though neither are actually as terrifying as my original imagination. The fear comes form the necessity to trust, not in your own hands and feet, but in a rope. If it falls, I do. If I let go, I do. But in neither case would I actually fall very far.
In the end, as we emerge, wet bottomed and pleasantly filthy from sliding about in the wet, sandy rocks, I feel highly triumphant and as though I could, quite easily, turn around and do the entire decent again.
I don't, of course.
But it's been quite a visit to Toro Toro, and not something we will forget in a hurry. In the Ciudad de Ita, there were condors soaring above our heads, still too high to see clearly, but closer than I have ever been. I could make out their round heads and thick beaks and the 3 distinct feathers at the end of each wing.
They were probably searching for their next meal. After all, they finished off the last dead tourist yesterday.
No comments:
Post a Comment