The Value of Water

The protagonist of this tale will henceforth be known as Olga. It is necessary that we call her such a name, so as to capture the ugliness of her character right away. We need a name that is cacophonous; one that does not roll off the tongue, but is spit out vilely, vomited forth, regurgitated out of disgust. We shall call her Olga as a preamble to her actions, her thoughts, and her physical form.

I’ll accept that the name Olga is a round one, but our anti-heroine is by no means plump. She’s wiry, fibrous, gaunt. Her form would be fit if it was not constructed from false pretenses. She is lean, the way a feral dog is lean; out of strain from years of practicing selfishness. She would be pale if the Peruvian sun were not so strong. Instead, she is reddish pink and flakey. Her lips are cracked and her nose is wilting. She bears likeness to dead tree limbs with the bark peeling away. Our Olga is a taught and calloused Eastern European woman. My Peruvian friend calls her “Corte Asco”, meaning disgusting haircut, and with good reason. Her thin, emaciated blond hair is plastered to her scull, stretching down the back of her neck, but cut short in the front aside from a collected section of bangs that she pulls to the side of her face. She believes her features to be attractive, since the Peruvian men she has met have been showing her lots of attention. I guess the gringa mystique works as a blindfold in some cases.

But her appearance has no real point in the story. It is her character that will reveal her hideousness, and so we must move forth in order to realize the full picture of our protagonist.

Olga wanted to climb The Sphinx. The Sphinx is a high altitude granite behemoth that sits in the Cordillera Blanca of the Peruvian Andes. She traveled from France, (where she currently lives though she was born in Hungary), to climb this world-renowned monolith. Her partner, a French woman, was set to join her, until enduring a 300 meter fall while descending a 5,000 meter peak. Luckily she only broke her leg. Finding out that her partner was out of commission, Olga decided that rather than aid her friend in her recovery (there were many logistics that needed to be planned to get her back to France), she would find another climber to accompany her on The Sphinx, abandoning her former partner to cope with her condition alone.

Enter: Me.

I met Olga at what I like to call “The Gringo Meeting Ritual”: an ultimate Frisbee game. I was invited to play because, well, I am a gringo, which ensures a certain adeptness and affinity for the disc sports. On the field, Olga discovered I was a climber, and so we decided to meet up again to climb that weekend. I was still unaware of her true character at this point. I obliged, and we spent a day at Hatun Machay, climbing amazing volcanic sport routes. Two days later, she invited me to join her on The Sphinx. I accepted.

As we left for our 5 day trip, Olga mentioned something about how there was a strike near the road that accesses The Sphinx, but she was sure that we would be able to make it, because she had checked ahead of time. Not knowing anything about this strike, and trusting Olga’s information, I didn’t worry one bit about accessing the road. She guided me to a shared taxi van, called a “combi”, and proceeded to tell me not to be worried about such a mode of transportation because she knew all about them and would make sure we were okay. She failed to realize that I had been taking combis for the last month in Huaraz to get to all sorts of destinations, and that her condescending tone embittered the air and made me second guess my acceptance of her proposal. But as she was demanding a better rate for the ride (rather than bartering) I decided to give her the benefit of the doubt and took my seat.

We traveled about an hour to get to Caraz, a small city north of Huaraz. Upon arriving, Olga ushered me to the office of tourism in order to clarify some things about the strike. She spoke little Spanish, and therefore needed me to translate. Javier, the tourist office representative, met us with bad news.

“There is still a strike in Parón and the people are not allowing any access past the town.”

I translated the news to Olga, and she responded, “No, it doesn’t matter. I was told that we could cross the road to get to The Sphinx. Tell him that we were told we could cross.”

I obliged her request, though translated that “She” was told that we could cross, rather than using “We” were told, because I was never told anything.

Javier responded, “Yes, we previously thought that there might be a chance, but the strike has become more serious and the people of Parón will not let anybody through, for any reason. We can go up to Parón and try, but chances are slim.”

Olga insisted that we go, and so Javier, Olga, and myself went to find a taxi that would take us to Parón, and to the barricaded road. Upon finding a taxi, she muttered to me, “these damn taxi drivers are going to charge us an exorbitant amount because we are gringos.” I just looked at her, rolled my eyes slightly, and let her argue with the taxi driver in her broken Spanish over the cost. As they discussed prices, a few old Quechua women approached me, wrinkled, frail, and with pleas that I didn’t fully understand.

“You can’t go to the lake. No one can go to the lake. They are stealing our water. You can’t go to the lake.”

The women were distressed and angry that we were making our way to Parón. I didn’t know how to respond, so I rudely ignored them and jumped into the taxi, an escape from their sadness. The taxi took off, and I felt terrible for not knowing why the women did not want us to go. I asked Javier what this strike was all about.

Duke Energy, a Canadian company, has set up a hydroelectric plant that takes water from the Parón Lake in order to produce electricity for parts of the city. The plant uses so much water that the river that is born from the lake has been reduced to a mere trickle. This river provides water not only to the small town of Parón, but to many other small towns along the river’s path. Water is life, and the people are striking because they are not getting enough water to sustain themselves, their families, and their crops. Knowing that the road to the lake, and subsequently, the road to The Sphinx, is a popular tourist attraction, the people have closed access in order to put pressure on the government to force Duke Energy to stop taking their water. The closure is peaceful and has been going on for months.

Once I was enlightened as to what exactly was going on in Parón, I felt terrible that we were ascending the road to potentially bring trouble to the people’s movement against this energy corporation. I have spent years studying civil disobedience, absorbing the writings of Gandhi, Thoreau, and King, and yet there I was, a privileged white male, partnered by a European woman, en route to try and pass a picket line against injustice. And what was our reason for believing we should be allowed passage? Was it because we were climbers? Gringos? Because Olga had been planning this trip since January? There was no part of me that felt that I had any right to pass the blockade, but the taxi continued its path up the road until we were finally confronted by the strikers.

I man, dark, weathered, and tired, walked up to the window of the taxi.

“Sorry, there is no passage through here. We are on strike.”

Olga pulled me to translate. She said, “Well I was told that I could pass, and I came all the way here from France to climb The Sphinx. I have been waiting months to be able to climb it.”

As I translated, my conscience tormented me with retorts: These people have been waiting months for water. What right do you have to make it harder for them to win this battle?

“Sorry” the man responded, “No passage for anybody.”

Olga became furious. She glared at me as if I had done something wrong in translating the man’s response for her. She opted to try and use her broken Spanish, rather that trust me to convey her right to be able to access the road. I stepped aside. Another group of men came up to listen to Olga’s diatribe. As they arrived, I decided that I was not going to be a part of Olga’s ludicrous debate. I shook each of their hands and asked them how the strike was going.

“Hard. The company is still stealing our water. We don’t have very much to live off of, and further down the river it is worse.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. I looked at Olga, as she spoke caustically about how she deserved to be able to cross. Then I looked back at the men, who were watching her. I lowered my eyes and again said, “I’m sorry”.

Javier pleaded with me to get Olga back into the taxi. He was getting embarrassed as well. I explained to her that the people were not going to let us pass, and that we should go. Javier told her that she could appeal to the mayor for support. Olga begrudgingly accepted.

As we descended the road, away from Parón and back to the city, Olga sat in the back, tense and angry. You could almost hear her blood boiling. No one spoke.

The appeal to the Mayor was futile. Olga and Javier constructed a letter that was meant to convince the head of the strike of our right to pass the blockade. It spoke of her sponsors and fame; of how there would be climbing magazine articles and news reports in France about the strike. Lies. Olga was willing to write anything to get a chance to climb The Sphinx. She also looked at alternate routes, using subterfuge as a means of getting past the barricade. But we were told that there were other groups of strikers on different parts of the road, some of which were armed. Olga still thought this might be a good option, even though is would put both of us in very real danger.

We were in the office of tourism six hours as Olga waited for the mayor, planned different strategies, and tried to convince Javier of her right to pass the blockade (she complained to anyone that would listen). I sat back, and patiently awaited the inevitable moment when Olga would realize that she would not be able to get to The Sphinx. Watching her selfishness and fury, I reflected.

At what point does a person become so completely self-centered that they are blind to plights far greater than their own? The gravity of the misfortune of the people in Parón cannot be any clearer, yet this woman believes her wants are more important than the needs and rights of these Peruvian people. Is this racism? Or is this just a sick manifestation of ignorance? Here we have a woman of European descent, who makes enough money to travel the world and rock climb (though she claims she is poor); who has a home, a job, a child, and can provide herself with food and water daily, and yet she feels like she is being unfairly treated because she is not allowed to climb a rock. It is unbelievable that she should feel offended by this strike! She would rather that people who are fighting for their right to have water go another day without it so that she can mark another ascent of a granite wall. What pure insanity!

My frustration peaked. I have rarely felt as angry as I did with Olga and her ridiculous desire to get to The Sphinx.

Javier finally told me I would have to tell Olga that there was no chance of getting to The Sphinx. I reluctantly translated and watched our 37 year old protagonist have a tantrum. She kicked a light post, reiterated in a loud yell that she had been planning this trip since January, and then sat on a curb, sulking for five minutes. We walked back to the combi station in silence.

Getting into the combi, Olga verbally attacked me.

“Oh, I know you don’t care anything about this. You haven’t been planning this as long as I have. This isn’t important to you at all.” She continued, “I’m sick of this country. I’m sick of Peru and of how stupid the people are.”

I could think of a lot of things to say in response, but I just let her vent, paid her fare on the combi and happily rode back to Huaraz.

I saw Olga again a few times after the affair in Parón. I even let her use my climbing rope for three days in Hatun Machay, though I didn’t climb with her. She never apologized for her behavior, or for attacking me. She never thanked me for trying to help with translations, or even for letting her use my gear. She hated me after Parón, which is fair enough, because I didn’t feel too great about her either. When she finally left to return to France, I tried to give her a hug as a means of some sort of reconciliation. She didn’t accept it, keeping her arms to her side. I was left with feeling insulted and shocked. But the experience with Olga has provided me with a plethora of thoughts and reflections that will definitely help to make me more conscious. May I never become so wrapped up in myself that I lose all grasp on the real suffering of other human beings. Once someone has crossed that line, the world becomes distorted and impure, as it is constructed in a realm of personal wants and desires; a world that is ugly if it doesn’t fit your wishes. There is too much beauty in the new, the surprising and the unknown; in challenge and reflection. If we become selfish, if all our experiences must fall in accordance to our wants, we eliminate true beauty, true adventure, and the possibility of real empathy and understanding of others. Take your selfishness with you Olga, I have no use for it.