Maybe because it has too many syllables, maybe because I’m going senile, I just have the hardest time saying “Vilcabamba,” especially under stress. The second morning we were there, I got our family lost hiking down a river. When we came upon a farmer working in his field, I asked, “Where is Villacabambibambia?” It’s like I couldn’t figure out how to end the word.
(I had the same problem in Ecuador with Otavalo. I just couldn’t remember where to put the stress — it goes on the third syllable — and as a result confused dozens of drivers and guides.)
Despite that, Vilcabamba is a lovely little colonial town nestled in the mountains, surrounded by forests and streams. We stayed in a hotel/yoga retreat just outside of town run by a charismatic German named Raik. Here we had our very nicest room of the trip…
…And some of our nicest meals. We did yoga and took hikes. Then one day we signed up for a horseback ride to a waterfall. We got much, much more than we were expecting.
I want to reiterate here how much faith you have when you travel. You sign up for an activity in a foreign country assuming that it’s safe. You assume that, since none of us are expert horse people, and that two of us our children, that the horses will be docile and the climb to the waterfall not precipitous.
The ride began along dirt roads shared with various vehicles. Sarah’s horse dawdled and our guide, who was named either Juan Carlos or Carlos Juan, decided to pull it on a lead behind him and quickly proceeded to pull the horse into a fence post. Sarah, unable to steer her horse, collided with the post which knocked her out of her saddle onto the rump of the horse and severely bruised her shin. After climbing down from the horse’s rear and collecting herself, Sarah wanted to continue with the trek. Then Julian’s horse reacted to an oncoming yellow truck by turning and heading back down the road. And my horse reacted to a bunch of horses coming the other way by rearing back on its legs, Lone Ranger-style. But I am not the Lone Ranger. Juan Carlos attempted to placate me by saying, “Don’t worry, it’s only certain horses that cause that reaction.”
So to sum up, three of us had horses with issues. And then the real climb began.
We crossed a big river, and I was still working through the adrenaline of that when we started up this narrow steep trail. When we started I thought, “We’re not climbing this, this isn’t made for horses.” In denial, I was convinced it was just a shortcut to the actual trail. But it WAS the trail. And it went on and on and just got steeper and rockier and more slippery. Our horses would stumble as we edged along cliffs with precipitous drops to the valley below. I was afraid to make eye contact with Sarah, afraid for her to confirm what I already knew in my heart — that we had put our family in terrible jeopardy by signing up for a horseback ride. (The kids thankfully were oblivious to this and enjoyed the ride thoroughly.)
I guess it’s anticlimactic to say that we made it to the waterfall, where we took this photo (in which we’re joined by the white angel dog that Walter sent to protect us)…
…and, more incredibly, that we made it back. But it’s not the first time on this trip I’ve wondered about what kind of parent I am and I’m sure it won’t be the last. People often compliment Sarah and I on what a wonderful opportunity we’re offering our kids by taking this trip, and I respond usually by smugly nodding and thinking, Yes, I am pretty great. But then there are these moments when I wonder if the opposite is true, that if in selfishly dragging my kids along on this trip I’m endangering them while depriving them of schooling and the company of their peers as well as food they like and a language they can understand. On this day I was more in the latter camp. And my thighs and ass felt like I’d been brutally spanked by a giant.
