Walking messes with my perception of distances, or maybe it gives me a more realistic sense of them.  I mean, I actually feel every single meter (or foot) that I walk.  And that achey knowing shows me that given enough steps, almost anywhere can feel like the middle of nowhere.

That’s how I was feeling one day as I pushed my cart up one of the interminable mountains in the central Andes of Perú.  It was getting dark.  I was covered in a fine grit of dust from all of the trucks and minivans (each one setting a world record for the “number of people you can stuff into one vehicle”) that had trundled by me during the day.  I was exhausted and more than a bit nervous that I wasn’t going to find a decent place to camp.

Every day, from about 4:00 pm on, my mind automatically locks into “campsite finding” mode. My eyes dart to and analyze every nook, cranny, berm, hillock, grove, and somewhat flat spot of land to either side of the road.  Invisibility, distance from dust clouds and tailpipe-belch, horizontality (a word?  well it is now), and freedom from spines, thorns, broken glass, used diapers, and unstable cliffs are all variables that I instantly and almost unconsciously identify, verify, and/or dismiss.

But this day was different.  I was on a narrow road, a cliff rising up to my left and another dropping sickeningly to my right…only eagles, geckos, Spiderman and levitation experts could camp anywhere along this route…and darkness was clenching each passing minute a bit more tightly.

I saw the lights of a little village just up ahead, and groaned.  I normally don’t like to sleep in villages.  Dogs bark all night, try to pee on me as I sleep, fleas and bedbugs congregate in such areas, there’s trash, chickens, poop, and large farm animals to contend with, as well as curious, well-intentioned locals who avidly watch me set up my stove, cook my meal, eat it, wash my pots and pans…they’d probably all gather around to “watch the gringo take a shit” if I’d let them.  And they often want to engage me in conversation late into the night, not comprehending that I’ve just spent the last 26 miles imitating a heavily-burdened mule.  and I don’t blame them, I’m an alien in their world, a strange and distracting novelty.

Yeah, I usually like to steer clear of all that.

But this village was my only hope for a night spent on flat ground.  I spotted what looked like an abandoned adobe hut (actually, they all look abandoned, to tell the truth, even the ones with a family of 15 in them).  But as luck would have it, just as I was about to lay out my tarp and sleeping bag, a couple of men appeared from a hidden trail wending up the cliff face.  One of them, an oldish guy, all wrinkled skin wrapped around thick bones, was carrying an ancient transistor radio crackling some unintelligable chatter that sounded like a news program. 

His companion was much younger, a solid block of a guy like he was made of bricks. They approached me cautiously, as I watched them with tired-wary eyes.

“What are you doing here?” the old man asked me, not unpleasantly.

“Well, just taking a break…and looking for a place to pass the night.”

The two men mumbled a bit to one another for a minute or two.  I was too worn out to really care what they were discussing.

The young guy turned to me and said.  “You can’t camp here…too dangerous, some bad people live near here.  You can camp in front of my house.”

I looked at him, trying to read him.  I have to admit that even in the face of the most open generosity, I often find myself a bit reluctant, suspicious, even, of the person making the offer.  I guess in the long run it’s probably a healthy reaction, (in terms of being a total stranger, completely vulnerable in a distant land) but I’m sure that it has many times impeded me from fully realizing the potential of interactions with people.

I couldn’t see anything “false” in his expression, his tone of voice, or his stance, so I nodded finally and said “You know what?  I’d appreciate that very much.”  The old man said goodbye and he and his radio sank back down the narrow cliff trail.  I followed the Young man along the road.

As we strolled along, we went through the usual introductions and small talk. His name was Daniel, a 24 year old father of 3 girls, a farmer, and part of a community council that decides how the meager local funds will be distributed.  His soft voice and quick eyes spoke of intelligence and curiosity.  He’d never studied past the 8th grade, opting instead to work in the fields alongside his father and grandfather.

After a bit we turned up a steep embankment to the left and right up to a long adobe building, the square-eyed windows all empty and black.  He invited me to stay in one of the empty rooms facing the road, but I told him that I much preferred sleeping outside and besides it would be less hassle for him and his family.

After eating my usual meal and washing my face and hands in the communal fountain, I followed Daniel, also cleaned up and in a fresh t-shirt, around to the back of the house and up to the second floor and the all-in-one living room/bedroom/kitchen/storage area. 

I sat on a rustic stool, Daniel, when he wasn’t puttering around, took a spot on one of the two beds, and one of his daughters sat on the floor, her coltish legs drawn up against her chest.  The floor was made of rough, warped planks of wood, huge gaps between each one giving a glimpse to the rooms below.  Boxes, blankets, sheep and goat hides and other bundles lined the two walls that didn’t have beds pushed against them.  A television fizzle-flickered in one corner, flashing in and out of color and black and white in tune with Daniel’s movements in the room.  One bare bulb struggled to make it’s 30 or so watts of light reach every corner.

I took all of this in through a haze of red-eyed exhaustion, my spine curved into an imitation of the letter “C”, my calf muscles twitching with the remembered agony of the long day’s climb.  Daniel finally settled down, turned to me, started talking.  I was content to let him go on, partly out of interest in what he was sharing, partly because I was almost too tired to respond.

“Debate tonight” he said, pointing at the TV.  Two wavy figures, the remaining candidates for the presidency of Perú, stood on opposite ends of the screen, hidden to the chest by lecturns, now in color, now in black and white…color-black/white-color-black/white…like the TV couldn’t decide if the two men were in the present or merely replays of some 60’s era political runoff.  “It’s the least-worst of two evils again” Daniel said, maybe to the TV.  “I don’t trust Ollanta, you know?  Ex military.  They always want power, in the end, bad politicians…killers.” 

I nodded.  He was talking about Ollanta Humala, a favorite of the angry, small town farmers and workers, the forgotten, almost powerless majority of Peru’s mountains and jungles.  Daniel continued, “And he wants to nationalize everything, kick out the gringo companies…but who’ll take their place?  We don’t have anyone who can do it, you know?  It’d be a disaster.”

I nodded again, impressed by his sober criticism of Ollanta’s platform.  Without any prodding he went on to the other candidate, “And Garcia…” he laughed something between bitterness and resignation, “…he’s already been president.  back in the 80’s.  He was horrible.”

“horrible?  why?”  I asked, imagining kidnappings, assassinations, mayhem.

“Just didn’t do anything, you know?  4 years of total nothing…didn’t meet a single promise, didn’t help any of us.  I mean, what the hell was he doing all that time?  Eating?”  another laugh.  “But,  I’ll probably have to vote for him…a term of nothingness is better than a dictatorship, I guess.”  He paused for a bit.  We watched the figures turn to eachother, then to us, then again toward one another, like swiveling puppets.  The sound on the TV was full of static, neither of us could really pick up what they were saying, which was alright because it was probably all wind and lies anyway.

Daniel started talking again, stringing together his own conversation, “But, you see, we need help.  We need the government to recognize us out here, because as it is right now…well, life has no beginning and no end…I get up every day before the sun, go up to my fields and either plant, harvest, water, or weed…every day, all year long.  It never stops, and in the end, well, I’ve got nothing to show for it.”

He shook his head, looked me right in the eyes.  “This last year, I invested 700 soles(about 230 dollars)  in my crops…you know how much I earned when I took it all in to market?”

I shook my head, lifted my shoulders.

“700 soles.” he laughed “I earned exactly what I’d invested, not a cent more.  And that’s how it’s always been,  you know? Every year the same thing.  I’ve never been able to save any real money, nothing that matters, anyway.”  He continued, talking about what the costs of raising crops and animals are: pesticides, seeds, vaccines, herbicides and the list went on.  “…and the government…they don’t help us at all.  There’re some programs to get us cheap seeds and chemicals and stuff, but they’re set up by non profits, not our government…there’s no price regulation, no marketing to foreign countries for our products, no nothing…I almost feel like voting for either of these guys” and he pointed a dismissive finger to the TV screen “is voting for air, just empty air.”

Silence stumbled into the room at that point.  My legs kept twitching, my feet cramped, first one than the other.  My back screamed for a backrest or a bed.  My eyes felt hot and swollen, I was sure they were totally bloodshot.  Daniel’s daughter sat against the wall.  I could feel her staring at me when I wasn’t looking, her eyes darting away when I glanced at her. 

Suddenly, and almost scaring me into a dead run out of the house, one of the shapeless bundles on the floor produced a bony arm holding a plate of rice and some darkly-browned avian limb.  I hadn’t even noticed the little old lady hunched down in a dark corner of the room.  I smiled at her, hoping she didn’t see me jump, and took the plate, even though I’d just eaten.  As I nibbled away at the mystery meat, Daniel asked me a question.

“Is it hard to get into the United States?”

I nodded, told him that since 9/11 it was hard for almost anyone to get in.

“How do you do it?  What do you have to do to get in?”

I shrugged, chuckled “Hell, I really don’t  know.  I suppose you have to apply for a visa, probably do an interview or something, pay some cash, have a sponsor up there, someone who will vouch for your ‘worthiness to step foot in the Holy Land’ or something like that…but really, I’m not sure.  I’ve seen tons of websites about it tho…” and I stopped.  I was mentioning the internet to a guy who’d spent his entire life until a year ago in a village with no electricity.  “There’re offices and stuff that deal with all that in some of the bigger towns.”

He looked at me, then, an imploring, barely concealed desperation in his eyes.  “Could you help me get in?”

That one look, everything that was written, lived, and hoped for just burning in his eyes…it broke my heart.

“Oof, Daniel, I mean…” I chuckled nervously “I’m sorry…but I wouldn’t know what to do…I have no power, you know?  I have no idea what’s required.” I stuttered to a halt. 

He looked away.  More silence, it felt like a year passed.  Then he said, ”yeah, sorry.  I know.” A pause.  My mouth was still open…I wanted to say something that would help, nothing came out.  He sighed, stood up slowly. “Well, time for bed, I guess, no?  It was really nice meeting you Ian.  Maybe see you in the morning, if you get up early.”

“Uh, yeah, sure, I’ll be up, Daniel.  Sleep well…and….and thanks, eh?  Thanks for everything.”

I waved to his daughter, took the old ladies hand, squeezed it, thanked her for the food, wished her a good night and stepped out of the near-darkness into the real thing, felt my way back down to my cart and my sleeping bag laid out like some sort of molted skin.  I was asleep within seconds.

When I woke up the sun was already hissing through the trees around the house.  A chicken lurched by, eyeing me as if I were a potentially giant kernal of corn, then dismissed me with a low cluck and moved on.  I packed my stuff, munched on some 3 day old bread and went up to Daniel’s house.  I looked in the living-dining-storage-bedroom…it was just as dark as it had been the night before, dust motes floated in little shafts of light coming through holes in the mud wall. 

No one home.  The daughter at school, the little old lady, well, who knows where, and Daniel somewhere up in the hills, bent over another never-ending crop of this or that, daydreaming about that ever-distant american dream.