Two months into my journey I'm in Peru.
Just getting to the Chachapoyas is going to be quite a trick.
Buses are scarce
and nobody takes too kindly to strangers filling up what little space is left.
Until... I bring out my fleece.
"They look at me and they laugh and they say, "how curious! A foreigner who spins!"
"She doesn't know how. We'd better show her."
Weaving and spinning has been a sacred art since ancient times.
In their eyes I won't be a woman until I can do it right.
"You're going to be a good spinner!"
"In a few years..."
[Explosion]
"We seem to be having terrible luck with tires lately."
But a flat tire is the least of our problems.
"Oh no, they've stripped it!"
"Is that the new tire?"
"It doesn't look all that different from the old one."
The three-hour delay would have dire consequences on the road ahead.
A one-lane road on the edge of a cliff.
An overloaded bus
and we have no lights.
We crawl along
and hope
and pray.
The end of the road.
A local farmer has offered to be our guide.
Though his horses are less than thrilled with the idea.
"This is a terrible way to start a four-day relationship, sweetheart."
"Come on!"
"That's where we're going."
Right up over the top of those mountains.
The Chachapoyas.
Peru's new archeological frontier.
I can't wait to get out and find some ruins.
Chachapoya means trees and mist in Quechua.
It's a land of dense jungle and endless fog.
But even that couldn't save them from being conquered by the Inca.
Nowadays most Chachapoya ruins are foundby farmers when they burn the forests to make new fields.
It looks exactly like an old Inca waystation
but this is no empty set of ruins.
We get a warm welcome
and an even warmer fire.
"Yes!"
Willerman was once an administrator in Lima
but retired to a nearby town and bought this farm to teach his children how to work the land.
But if I was expecting an uneducated farmer's boy
I was in for a surprise.
Poetry.
All the great authors.
His repertoire is endless.
"Sweet dreams!"
The bond between this father and his young son is a joy to see.
The product, he says, of their days working together in the field.
That I may one day be as good a parent as he seems to be.
These are the ruins of the ancient Chachapoya civilization.
Much of what we know about these mysterious people
comes from the few relics found in the graves beside their dead.
There - in the cliffs.
Hundreds of burial chambers.
And in every one - a mummy.
But getting there is easier said than done.
The base of the cliff is littered with shattered skeletons
tossed down by grave robbers searching for ceramics.
500 year old textiles
rotting in the rain.
I can't resist a closer look.
It seems almost the saddest part about the grave robbers it's not what they take -
It's what they destroy.
The Spanish conquerors complained bitterly about these steep steps.
The Inca road clearly wasn't built for horses.
Though they do come in handy when it gets cold.
"I'm getting warm."
"I'm falling in love with this warm horse."
There is a confusion in the path, he says.
Much fog. It's an obstacle.
"We're lost."
"Well, we're not totally lost. We're only lost until the mist goes away. If it goes away."
Eventually our guide sets off to find the missing trail
and disappears.
It takes three hours to find him again.
"Ola!"
He'd been fishing in a nearby lake.
At least we've got lunch.