Taray is a tiny town in the Urubamba River Valley where we are staying this week. The nearest real town is Pisac. Here in Taray we are staying in a place like a bed and breakfast with 14 students, two teachers, and a cook. We eat our meals together at a large table. Half of us have classes 8-12; the other half from 4-8. In between or during the other class, we get to explore the area and take excursions or hang out in the inviting garden area. The mode of transportation to and from Pisac is mototaxis – motorcycles outfitted with a closed in seat that is big enough for 3 people. Trips to Pisac (a 25 minute walk) cost 30 cents per person. Our fellow classmates are from Netherlands, Germany, Switzerland, Canada, and one other from the US. We get to hear lots of German as well as Spanish!
At noon when our classes finished, we all hopped on a “bus” with a bag lunch. The bus was really a minivan with all 14 of us stuffed inside. We drove about an hour to the Salt Mines in Maras. After a hot 45 minute hike up the mountain we got an incredible view of the Incan Salt Mines. It is a series of 3000 bathtubs built into a steep hillside with a complex system of irrigation channels leading to all of them. All are at different stages of evaporation. Each one has a water channel leading into it which can be turned on and off by placing a rock in front of it. Every few days they let more water in, wait for it to evaporate, let more in, and about a month later, the salt is 4-5 inches thick. At this point they beat it with a large rock to separate the crystals and put it in a bag to take to the salt manufacturer, where it is cleaned and iodine is added. Each tub is owned by a different person, and incredibly, this salt mine is still in use today. We saw one being beat, and we saw someone packing out the salt. Camille tasted it and wants to bring home some crystals she found. The mountainsides outside the flat are obviously full of crystals of salt and other minerals.
Afterwards we went to Pisac to sample desserts and to use the internet in a café. They charge 70 cents for an hour of use. There were hordes of little boys hanging around; apparently they are permitted to play games on the Internet whenever a computer is not being used by a paying customer. It is an odd contradiction to be sitting in the café using the new flat-screen computers and glancing out the doorway to see cows walking by, ladies sorting grasses and peeling potatoes, and bikes with baskets carrying items to the market.
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