Leading from the front
Seven feminists and a drugged-up Jack – our Andes trek didn’t bode well, says Hilary Bradt
It’s the recipe for a perfect storm: an ill-sorted, illprepared group signs up for a tough trek in a country that is only just getting the hang of tourism. That was Bolivia in 1982, a fragile democracy with more changes of government than years of independence. And me, an inexperienced tour leader who was keeping a bit quiet about not having previously hiked the Gold Digger’s Trail.
Consider these ingredients: nine women and one man, all with their own reasons for choosing this trip: seven of the women were militant feminists who wanted a female leader; two young women were hoping for romance; and Jack was on a quest for a steady supply of coca leaves to chew and had a rucksack full of prescription drugs.
Add to these a rugged Grade 4 trek (the second-highest difficulty rating) over the Andes; two women admitting they had never really walked anywhere but had been persuaded to sign up out of sisterly solidarity; and a general strike in La Paz leading to another coup.
I first had doubts about the group on the 10-hour train ride across the high plain of Peru, one of South America’s most spectacular rail journeys. We were going not just first class, but special class. Jack was no trouble; he had taken several Valium and slept soundly the whole way, just needing an occasional shove to prevent him falling off his seat. The women were awake and unhappy: “Why didn’t we fly this stretch?” asked one, as we glided past herds of alpacas backed by snow-covered mountains. I comforted myself with the thought that maybe they felt good scenery could only be enjoyed at walking pace, but this hope was dashed when I explained that, to help them acclimatise, various optional walks around Lake Titicaca had been planned. They opted out.
Then Douglas arrived. I’d been asked whether we minded if a journalist joined us. “No problem,” I said, “but I’ll check with the others.” A meeting was called. The group that assembled was amicable, chummy and cheerful. The group that left was divided, bitter and angry. The feminists were adamant no man should join the group. “He’ll spoil our sisterhood and will always be writing down what we say.” The Normals fought the case for Douglas but were outnumbered and lapsed into angry silence. Jack chewed coca leaves. I bowed to the majority and phoned the agency. There was a pause: “I’m afraid he’s already on his way...”
I put this little difficulty aside and sorted my luggage for the trek. The bus that was bringing Douglas would stay to take us to the trailhead in the afternoon. Soon I was introducing myself to this very pleasant and unassuming man, and asking if I could have a word in private. It was not easy explaining the previous evening’s discussion, but I reassured him that, while the atmosphere might be tense at first, he would soon be accepted. Then I led him on to the bus and introduced him to the group. There was an icy silence.
That night, as we put up our tents in the chilly pampa, I could feel hatred seeping like rainwater under the flysheets. No one would speak to me except the Normals and Douglas, who were getting on famously. I visited each tent to explain my position and listen to the pent-up fury. “You deceived us!” “I bet Joan and Susan talked you into it.” “I’ve just written an eight-page letter of complaint to the tour operator.”
I was also concerned about the guide who had joined us. Jean-Paul was a French mountaineer and poet with flared nostrils like Rudolf Nureyev. He told me he didn’t much care for women and hated Americans. It was a good thing he didn’t speak English.
The next day, we would begin our six-day trek. I climbed into my sleeping bag with the comforting knowledge that at least some of the group were now happy. Perhaps all would be well.
‘Why didn’t we fly this stretch?’ I was asked as we glided past herds of alpacas backed by snow-covered mountains