Off the beaten Inca Trail - A short chronicle from Peru's Sacred Valley

Of a late afternoon, a painfully beautiful kaleidoscope of pastel colours are reflected from the surface of 3000-odd terraced salt ponds, painting a mirror of the imposing Qaqawinay Mountain in all of its splendour. It’s something you’d imagine seeing hung on the wall of the fifth floor at Paris’ Museé d’Orsay - a 19thC impressionist ‘Maras Salt Ponds’ artistic creation immortalised on canvas. I could easily imagine Monet sitting here with his easel, palette and array of oil paints, relishing at the depth and spectrum of where ponds meet mountain.
The scene unfolding in front of my eyes is so incredibly photogenic, I can’t help but click my camera away like a teenager clicking ‘refresh’ on their social media feed. “Oye, vamos! You’re going to miss the best part”, yells our ever-so patient guide Victor from across the terraced salty walk-way. What? It gets even better?

Further afield the pond terraces open up to a display of cascading white and rose, covering the hill side like icing on a cake. “Why is it so pink?” Clarissa, a member of our group asks, telepathically plucking the very same question from my head. “Iron”, responds Victor, “The mountain-scape is rich in iron which is pink in colour”.

We sit in awe of the geological phenomena surrounding us, of its simplicity and its raw beauty. Perhaps however, the most intriguing part to the pond puzzle are its people. Knee-deep in the pastel white-wash, they dig up piles and piles white-rose from each pond floor, harvesting tonnes of salt by hand, one heap at a time. “All salt ponds are maintained and harvested by the families of the Maras community” explains Victor, anticipating our next series of questions. “The Maras community has been doing this for hundreds of years. Well before Incan times”.

I look down to the walkway under my feet – a white muddy surface of compacted salt pathing the way through the terraced ponds. Adjacent to the walkway runs a narrow stream of water contained only by banks of crystalised salt. Victor sees me examining the flow of water, sensing my curiosity. “Go on, try it” he urges. I look back to him for some sort of cue in body language to ensure his suggestion wasn’t just a joke before sticking my finger in the flow. “It’s warm!” I exclaim surprisingly in disbelief, “and salty!” More trusting now, I stick my whole hand in the water to feel the current flow past my palm and fingers. Upon taking my hand out, a white ring of salt residue forms around my wrist as the water evaporates. My hand immediately feels dehydrated, old and wrinkly. Good gracious – those people knee deep! How do they do it?

We wander further along the salty mountainside towards a wide bank to sit down, take in the vista and hear Victor’s story. “The water flowing through these canals comes from just one source – a saline spring located inside the mountain. Salty water rises from the spring to flow through a series of channels that have been intricately constructed by the local community. The entire network has been crafted so that gravity does the hard work of transporting the water across the site, filling each pond with saline solution. Throughout the dry season, the beating Andean sun evaporates the water from each pond, leaving a concentration of crystalised salt. This salt is then harvested by the Maras community, which is the village we just trekked from to arrive here. The Maras people have been the caretakers of this salt for centuries. They use it for food preservation, for bartering and for securities. Oh, and they sell it too! Some of the best restaurants in Peru use Maras salt for flavouring.”

The sun starts to set behind the mountain, casting a morphic shadow across the salt pans. Victor signals that it’s time for us to make a move, so as to make our way back to the explora hotel before dark. Our group members simultaneously stand up and begin to navigate the salty path down to the valley floor. I trail behind with my camera, like a toddler in a supermarket eyeing off the lolly and toy aisle. No toddler tantrum from me though – just awe and amazement of the valley’s raw earth and the synergy with which the Maras people move with it, as if the mountain was a part of them.
We reach the valley floor and trek through a small village vending bags, boxes and canisters of Maras salt. I pick up a bag to take back home with me and a canister filled with salt to gift to family or a friend. “Is that all?” Victor asks, pointing at my purchase. “Don’t worry my friend, I’ll be back” I respond, smiling from ear to ear. “Let’s go! It’s Pisco time!”