At the first full moon after the autumn equinox I returned to Lunahuana. The water was still too high to cross the Rio Mala, but in this neighbouring valley, I could take another look at the giant boulder in the field beneath the zip wire.
The coming Monday would be a holiday and thousands of tourists had headed to the town for the long weekend of white water rafting and zip-lining, eating in the town’s several restaurants, and drinking pisco sours at the makeshift bars set up at the side of the pretty central square with its bandstand, flowering trees, and ornate cast iron street lamps.
On the street two women wearing red and black chequered cloth tied at the waist with a woven belt were selling vegetables. This was the clothing of communities in Yauyos, inland to the East, mountainous and remote, now a protected reserve, where a few hundred people still speak a rare and ancient indigenous language, wear giant silver tupus, ornamental pins, to fasten their shawls, and .
“How far have you travelled?” I asked.
“Three hours, from Catahuasi” they told me.
I bought a matured cheese “a week old, and it will be good for another week” and a bag of small dark avocados.
“One day I will come and visit Catahuasi” I told them.
“Come on a Sunday. We will be at home then”.