Collage, Peru

Along the route that links the few cities strung along the Central Andes, changes in scenery are as frequent as potholes. Despite the lack of the latest technology, the landscape in this remote region is transmitted via the highest quality RGB monitor. Freshly planted, plucked, or plowed potato patches contrasted with those awaiting their fate on my plate in an undulating mosaic of cultivated earth. This quilt of complementary colors gained additional vibrance from the bright blue sky, although in the early afternoon, reception was obscured by a thick static that left me soaking wet.

As the altitude increased, the quilted RGB liquified into an insoluable mixture of chaotic composition. The same pallatte used in the gridded agriculture transformed into the swirling abstraction of a surrealist´s brush. At 5,059 meters, the composition reached it´s height, as did Surely and her passenger. Nowhere else in South America can wheeled vehicles travel this high, rendering it as a milestone of sorts. Celebrations were limited to an Inca war-cry and a solitary square-dance because the B on the RGB scale was growing darker, sounding off a war-cry of it´s own.

A nervous descent through an atmospheric mosh-pit brought with it a stable sky that allowed my blood to resume flow in my knuckles. During a brief but intense break in the clouds, a curious smell rose on the steam of the thawing earth. From my deductions, either Peru got its smell from potatoes or potatoes got their smell from Peru, because the odor emitting from the thawing landscape smelled exactly as such. This reminded me of the hunger that had been lingering, but with no satiating options in sight, I chewed on my cheek.

People residing in this desolate stretch emit a similar radiance as the brilliant landscape. Instead of shouting an alienating comment at my passing - which is customary among most highlanders - the people of this region seem to have a genuine interest in why a gringo would ride a bike and eat avocados when most others ride busses and chomp on chickens. Whenever I slow down enough to exchange more than a two-syllable greeting, I´m swarmed with an onslaught of questions from everyone within earshot.

The old men usually ask how long my tires last while the younger generation is more concerned with how I manage to eat if I don´t have enough money to travel by car. No matter how hard I try to convince them that this is a choice, they still demand to know where I find food. This reminded me of the hunger that had been lingering, and with a produce cart in sight, I indulged in the bounty of a beautiful landscape.