Road to Peru

When my dad announced he would write a book obviously no-one in the family took him seriously, moreover, at least for me and my brother it was just one more opportunity to ridicule him. Of course, we’ve been proved massively wrong. He actually did it and it wasn’t bad at all either.

What was it about?

I can only speculate about the motivation that pushed him to endorse such project. I think he sensed that it was going to be his last opportunity to let it all out. The good and bad memories from a period of his life that has been as hard as it has been sweet for him, wrapped in faraway time clouds, forever carved in the memory of a child and teenager. 

The book is about his early life in his home village, Furci, before his family decided to leave, for good, in search of fortune in the richer post-war northern Italy. It’s impossible for anyone who did not experience that life to understand what he actually went through, the meaning of those days, the reality of experiences that never again repeated themselves in our country.

The book is about his home, lost, but not forgotten. And its title is a promise, “Torno presto… non appena possible”, I’ll soon be back… as soon as possible.

He went further than that. He toured the whole region, from town to town, welcomed as some sort of local hero, presenting his book to villagers in crowded squares, handshaking and signing, like a star. I missed all that, because I was in London and back then I was stupid enough not to bother about such unique opportunity. I missed it and I regret it greatly.

When my dad passed away in 2009, we all went to Furci and instead of the usual flavourless and sad obituaries, we hanged on the walls the announcement, “Giuseppe è tornato”, with clear reference to his book’s title: he is back.

Furci not only is home to my dad though. It’s been home to my grandma too, of course. She’s been the sweetest and kindest human being I’ve ever met in my life. As a kid, I used to expect from my parents to let me spend at least one week alone with grandma in Furci at the end of the summer before the start of the school term. I learned a bit of Furci's dialect too, out of necessity, since it was still kind of the official language there. Grandma was my family. I don’t think anyone understood that. I’ve been in search for one ever since she passed away. So, Furci is one special place for me too. Possibly the only place where I hold more good memories than bad ones.

In fact, one thing that I kind of envied about my dad, is what Furci meant for him. It was his home, the place where he held his roots. Anywhere else, as dear as it could have been to him, was maybe a very good place, maybe the place that allowed for his success, his realisation as adult man, husband and father, but was not his home. And he’s always been very clear about it.

I don’t have such place. I don’t have a single place like that. Turin is where I grew up. London is where I spent an extremely important part of my adult life. What about the place where I was born? Is that a bit of my home too? I’ll soon find out. Because I too had made a promise to myself.

After more than 46 years since I was adopted, it’s time to visit Peru. It’s time to dive deep into the abyss of my early existence, trying to fill some gaps. See with my own eyes my birthplace, where I was abandoned, where I was saved, where I was adopted.

Of course I happen to have been born in one of the top tourist destinations of the world, so the voyage of my life will be filled with cultural and natural visits, Pisco sour, ceviche and a little challenge of my own: the 5 days Salkantay Trek to Machu Picchu. Am I not tiralazanka after all?

Will I find my own Furci in Cusco? We’ll soon find out...

Training ground

I’ve been preparing for this trip my whole life. Laziness and fear always kept me well clear from actually make it happening.

Yet, often in life one needs something very bad to happen to get things moving. I have now collected an enviable series of very unfortunate life events, so psychologically I feel like nothing can beat me anymore. I had already experienced the precious feeling of having lost everything, when I died in 2015, but in fact I went well beyond that point and I’m now very happy to face any dark depth, without fear.

Quite literally, in fact. For the past three years I dedicated myself to go below sea level freediving more that going above it free climbing. The game is similar, but freediving is the quintessential introspective jump into the unknown, the bits of our subconscious any normal person really doesn’t want to know anything about. But I’ve diverted from being normal a while back now, and I do want know all about the worst parts of me, challenge them and win them.

I got to 5 minutes and 45 seconds static apnoea, that’s not a world record, I appreciate that, but it’s a lot for me, enough to get me thinking some serious shit. Then I had to work very hard to dive down to almost 30 meters, the end of my static cable, free falling to where the sea starts getting a little darker. For this I had to fight, and am still fighting, some compensation issues, the real showstopper. But the depth made me thinking even more. I’m very much attached to freediving, because it gave me a second chance, maybe a third one, in fact.

At some point the air that was keeping me alive became toxic. And yet we can’t live without air. Not for long. Freediving to me is a little metaphor to that, it taught me living without breathing. It’s the perfect exercise to navigate through difficult times.

So, when I’m done with relaxing, what’s next? Zero meters above sea level is not my ideal altitude. Nowadays I must either be below or be way above it. The mountains are my other therapy and the Peru project that has been occupying my brain for at least the past two years, has worked as excuse to test me at the higher altitudes. Moreover, I found new partners in crime for my alpine shenanigans. And we had so much fun…

Went back for the fifth time to Gran Paradiso (4061 m), one single overnight push, climbed to Signalkuppe (4554 m), Parrotspizte (4432 m), Schwarzhorn (4322 m), Piramide Vincent (4215 m), Castor (4228 m), and few more peaks above 4000 m and many more treks to get me going and well prepared.

Finally, few days ago I decided to run a little test of my own…

The challenge 

Don’t know why I’ve never been here. Maybe because everyone else has already been here, many more than once. But I admit it, it is no excuse. This mountain is iconic for anyone living in Turin. Even those hating mountains and mountaineering, know about it. It’s there, it’s always looking at you from its 3538 m.

I think all of this while I’m driving the one-and-a-half-hour distance from home to the car park where the hike begins. The challenge: overnight hike as fast as I can. 

Let’s see if my legs and lungs still hold some of my Peruvian heritage in them. Check the clock, ready, go. 

For years I’ve been telling myself when in deep pain while climbing, “I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I love this shit”. I was actually not alone at the car park. Another mentally diseased guy was there with my same idea.

“Hi”
“Hi”

That’s all we exchanged before I started walking. He was behind me, maybe looking to not be alone during his climb or to just keep up pace. Less than half hour later he disappeared behind me and turned into a head torch moving slowly up the mountain. A familiar sight.

Good, good, I’m good. Let’s increase a bit. Push. Push. Push.

Clouds were gathering below and moving upwards, so I took it like a little challenge to try keeping above them.

Feel like I would do with a sip of water, but there’s no time. Feel like I would do without a layer of clothing, but there’s no time. Steer away from me clouds, steer away! Ah, so that’s the refuge. Another time, another time I’ll stop by, but tonight… there’s no time.

Obviously the clouds engulfed me big time and my head torch was just illuminating the white wall in front of me.

Luckily this is not exactly a secret spot, track is obvious, I’ll just push the head torch down and illuminate the meter in front of my feet. Push. Push. Push. I love this shit.

I started to feel a little tired, or maybe just willing to take a nap. Two hours were gone and I checked the altimeter. I went past 3000 m some hundreds meters ago.

Can’t see shit, but technology tells me I’m not that far off. Another 300 m to go, can make it in half hour top. Oh, there they are, they were real…

For the entire duration of the hike I thought I had seen some head torches ahead of me, way high, but were kind of still, not moving really. Then they disappeared in the fog and then they came back again. But at some point I convinced myself they were not humans, they were not real. Instead… there they were, three hikers utterly knackered taking some rest.

“Hi”
“Hi”

Another deep and meaningful exchange. But there was not time…

There they are! Stars, stars above me and clouds below me… this is so cool! Don’t get romantic yet. Push. Push. Push. Now I see the summit, I can almost smell it, there it is, 2.5 hours, not bad, not bad, I could’ve done better, so be it, next time…

I touched the massive statue marking the summit of Rocciamelone and sat on the floor, finally drinking some water, finally taking some layers off me, I was boiling, but it was freezing. I took some pictures, when clouds hide the world beneath, mountaineers are like astronauts in a spaceship. And I felt like when I’m deep under water, out of this world, guest in a much better one. All my troubles below, I didn’t want to go down, just as much as I never want to resurface when I’m down there, holding my breath.

There’s a bivouac up here, I’ll take a nap before starting my descent…
“Mmmmmm…”
“Sorry, sorry…”

Have I mentioned this was not a secret spot? Two other guys were sleeping in the bivouac, I silently crept on to a wooden bed, no mattress was there, but I needed a little nap. Half hour later the three guys I overtook earlier bombed in the bivouac, a little less respectfully than I did.

“The fuck!”
“Oops!”

They laughed out loud. I tried my best to keep relaxing and then another half hour later the guy that left with me from the car park also bombed in.

Ok, it’s a sign I have to leave, impossible to rest here.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m off”
“Bye!”
“Sod off…”

I actually said that in English, slammed the door behind me, picked up my trekking poles and I froze astonished by what was in front of me.

Nighttime memory, countless shades of blue, stars watching over me, fighting the perennial battle with the sun, painting the sky, preparing the stage for the new day.

I was there in awe, still, shivering, in disbelief. There were three people in the hut missing all of this. Two more fighting to get some sleep. Humanity lost in a smelly bivouac. It was so much better out there.

Ok, romantic moment’s over. Official time to climb this hill is four hours. Here’s another challenge, let’s get down in one hour and make it 3.5 hrs in total.

I started running down the fixed ropes and then over to easier terrain. There were few more people along the way taking advantage of the fresher morning hours to hike up. I came across a girl with a dog and she stepped aside a little scared.

Run, crazy Inca, run. Jump like a goat, I’m smelling like one already, run to thicker air and don’t stop. There it is, the daylight, the green valley below me, the dirt road, the car park. Time check: one hour descent. I made it.

Epilogue 

The adopted becomes the adoptee, here I come, my dear homeland, I’m ready to adopt whatever’s left of me over there. I had to challenge it physically to compensate for what I couldn’t achieve mentally. But here I am, and it was about time.