When I first asked Flor if there was a waterfall nearby, her answer wasn’t convincing. She nodded in a vague way, as though humoring me. “Sí,” she said, and jerked her chin at the ravine to the north. “Me esperan, wait for me. I’m going that way, too.”



She disappeared into the eucalyptus grove to fetch her second horse.

It was beautiful there so high above the town of Celendín: eucalyptus trees marched in single file as windbreaks edging the fields, their bark peeling off in long strips, their dried leaves crunching underfoot. They smelled fresh and faintly herbal. Some of the fields look recently tilled, but most were still fallow for the winter months. Ghosts of corn stalks rustled like paper in the wind. We were trespassing, cutting through fields on hard-packed footpaths, skirting far from the adobe farmhouses. I was nervous—where I’m from, the reaction to strangers cutting through your field is suspicion at best, and I had no idea what etiquette in rural Peru was.

Flor came back, leading her reluctant horses, and began to shoo her lost gringos down the path. The sun was slanting into afternoon and casting long pointed shadows from the agave that lined the field.



Flor’s answer may not have been convincing, but she was the best shot that we had. We had heard about the waterfall at Pilco from a local hostel owner, but no one else had been able to confirm it. Not the old men in the Plaza de Armas, not the taxi drivers, not the shop owners. We were told about waterfalls in nearly every other part of the countryside, but Pilco? No. Definitely not.

Celendín doesn’t get many foreign visitors unless they’re like us, making the trip from Cajamarca to Chachapoyas and stuck for the night. The town is set in a valley beneath plump hills that seem overripe and burst open, like scarred tomatoes. Long narrow strips of rough shrubs and stones remain on the hill in those places where it was too steep to plow.

Against all advice, we took a taxi up into those hills to the village of Pilco, following the directions the hostel owner had given us. The taxi driver got out at the green house we’d been given as a landmark and called out the señora there. Were there waterfalls nearby? he asked. She shook her head and pursed out her lips in a “no.” She yelled to a neighbor. No waterfalls.

No matter. We set our through the field, following the directions we’d been given, and found Flor. She was a tiny old woman sun-browned and dried, her impish face a leathery mess of wrinkles, her brown eyes sparkling, her teeth all rimmed with silver. She wore a brilliant blue sweater and a skirt of deep blood red over neon pink felt petticoats, and a wide white sombrero. Her legs were bare, and on her feet only a worn pair of black laced shoes.



We began to communicate as we walked, me struggling to understand her heavily-accented Spanish, she not always able to decipher my broken grammar and mispronounced words. Her Quechua accent made for speech that seemed slurred and cut short, the vowels crushed and elongated like ovals, the “o” becoming a “u.” Where are we from? she asks. How many children does she have? I counter. I motion to the horses. “Como se llama los caballos? What are the horses called?” She looked at me askance. “Caballos,” she answers. It should have been obvious.

We passed by a field being plowed by a man and two oxen: they’re planting potatoes, Flor told us. I told her that my father was a farmer of corn and wheat. She raised an eyebrow. No potatoes?



The people in the field knew her and called out greetings. One old man raised his hat to us. “Flor, donde encontraste los gringos, where did you find the gringos?” She motioned back the direction we had come. “And what are they doing?” he asked. She shrugged. “Just walking.”

What were we doing? We had started wondering that ourselves as we followed Flor dutifully, lured by the promise of waterfalls, but beginning to suspect that she may just be taking us along for the company.

At the top of a steep hill we rested; she spread out her shawl for us and invited us to sit on it. We did, and we spoke of familial things. My age. When we got married. Where her children live now.

She was surprised at my age. “I thought you were twelve or thirteen!” she laughed, slapping me on the back. “So young!” She teased Rob. “How are you here with such a pretty girl?”

After the rest we help her secure a pair of corrugated metal sheets on the barren walls of a house in construction. The two sheets join a scattering of plastic sacks as the only protection these fragile walls have against the rain. She says they’ve been working on the house for two weeks (she holds up both hands with all her fingers spread wide). Progress seems rapid so far—hopefully they’ll get the roof on before the heavy rains come.

She sends Rob up the ladder and coaches him as he positions the sheet. When he comes back down she looks at him approvingly. “You weren’t scared?” she asks. He answers no, and she grins. “You’re a good gringo. That’s why you’ve got such a pretty girl!”

I ask if we’re going to the waterfall next, and she nods her same vague affirmation. “Me esperan, wait for me,” she says again as she goes back to retrieve her horses, but when she comes back she leads us to the main road, and it becomes apparent that we’re headed back toward Celendín. She takes us through short cuts until we reach her street. She asks us if we’ll spend the night—she rents rooms—and we tell her no, we already have a room rented in town. She asks for a photo of us as a remembrance, and invites us back the next morning.



We go to the photo center and make prints of a few photos we think she’ll like, and return the next morning to give them to her. Her hands are covered in flour dough, but she takes them, smiling.

Rob and I leave her home laughing at the absurdity of the encounter. I keep wondering what parts of this story she’ll tell to friends to have them rolling on the floor laughing—just as we’ll do, as well. Will our parts be the same, or will we have separate moments of hilarity, each unknown to the other?

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