Deeper Destinations

I found myself here by accident.
Rusty high school Spanish and youthful bravado is to blame for boarding the wrong rickety bus at the noisy depot two hours ago.
Nestled in a valley cradling a murky brown river, somewhere between Cusco and Ollantaytambo, is the little Peruvian town of Urubamba.
When I happen upon Urubamba it’s a Wednesday.
Where I come from, Wednesday is celebrated for marking the half way point to the weekend. In Urubamba, Wednesday has a whole different meaning.
Wednesday is market day.
Stout little ladies with hats proudly perched atop of their long braids, young women with sleepy babies slung across their backs in brightly coloured cloths, frail elderly men pushing carts stacked twice their size with potatoes, dirt-smeared children with crooked smiles weaving between legs and hungry dogs searching for titbits all compete for space.
It is the most perplexingly ordered chaos I’ve ever seen. And somehow, amongst it all, I am meant to get to the other end of the road to find the little blue van that I’m told will bump and jostle me through the Highlands back to Cusco.
I’m completely overwhelmed.
Tentatively, I start inching into the mayhem.
I don’t get far before curiosity takes over trepidation.
I’ve never seen such giant pumpkins, papayas or bananas. Balancing unsteadily on one another in precarious towers, they are the Peruvian version of Jenga.
I tip-toe a little further.
The ground is covered with mounds of miniscule pears and cherries. It’s as if they’re trying to directly counter the enormity of their neighbours. Like much of Peru, the juxtaposition somehow only makes it seem more perfect.
Without warning, a squawking chicken, desperate to avoid its inevitable fate, darts across the path in front of me. A teenage girl no older than thirteen is in hot pursuit, clucking briskly in Quechuan dialect, her skirt billowing behind her.
As I regain my bearings, a waft of something sweet catches my attention.
Turning to my left I see a brightly dressed woman with crinkly skin and flirty eyes huddled in a mountain of kaleidoscopic flowers.
Unable to resist, I exchange a few battered coins for a tall green stalk with little buds of yellow bursting from the tip.
There’s something very refreshing about the way its aroma softly mingles with the heavy smell of mud.
Twirling my purchase, I’m filled with a new sense of belonging.
I am no longer just a witness to this colourful, chaotic scene.
I arrived by accident, but I know that I left with purpose.