4

and ran back up the hill. The woman raised their arms, laughing, and stood still. Asunta paused for a moment, and then beckoned me to follow her back up the hill as well. I began to doubt if we would be going to Ollantaytambo today, and lamely lamented the loss of shower, email, and freshly ground Quillabamban coffee. I wondered if a game of survival-of-the-fittest played out every Wednesday, and if many families had to be disappointed at the loss of carrots, corn, and other staple goods to supplement the village grown potatoes.

We caught the bus as it came back down the road, with several men already inside but space enough for our own seats. We made it! A peaceful two minute ride got interesting when we returned to the throng of women. Sitting on the bench next to the sliding door, when it opened I was greeted with a solid wall of excited faces packed among multitudinous folds of dyed wool, that ironically, reminded me of the hilarious horror of the Tokyo subway at rush hour. Like a dam breaking they flowed in, climbing over me, sitting on each other’s laps, squeezing into contorted positions, rearranging, until a had two Quechuan women sitting in my own lap and the stragglers clambering up to the roof. Amazingly everyone was going to the market that day.

I had come here to learn and document the textile

My Patacancha Journal

was a bus, or actually several cars.

A little after 6:30 a few curt words among the people in my immediate vicinity suddenly spurred a mad dash down the road to the mountain. I had no idea what was happening, but resigned myself to following my host mom at all costs. (I should note that after several weeks at altitude I can no longer explain my difficulty in keeping up with Asunta on not being acclimatized – though a strong hiker, I am no match for a middle-aged Quechan woman who saunters up and down mountain valleys to check on her grazing llamas and sheep, spinning wool methodically along the way.)

After several minutes of shuffling down the road, a competitive atmosphere began to intensify. For instance, when a group of us would reach another group that had slowed to a walk, they would start running again, laughing. Where were we going – the next village? That far? I couldn’t tell.

A white Toyota minivan swooped around a curve in the road ahead, and I realized why people were making a bolt for it – it couldn’t possibly fit everyone (it did.) Laughing, the driver slowed and then accelerated past the pleading throng, back up the road to where we started, the proper pick-up point. The men, without pausing, turned around