Puente Colgante

This is the puente colgante, or “hanging bridge”.  It connects the neighboring districts of Tantará and Huamatambo.  There is now a road that connects the two, and a truck that travels that road twice a week.  The most direct route by foot, however, is through the fields, past the cows, and over the bridge.  Every year, on the same day, the communities of Tantará and Huamatambo go down to the river and do maintenance on the bridge. 

Yesterday, I was walking back to Tantará after spending 3 days in Huamatambo.  I work with 10 families in Huamatambo, and visit about once a month.  The walk between the districts takes me a little less than 2 hours, and besides the occasional incredibly scary dog, it is a relatively uneventful walk.  Except when I get to the bridge.  As soon as I take my first step to cross, my stress level spikes.  Reminding myself to breathe, I take one very careful step after another, focusing on where I place my feet instead of the rushing water beneath.   At a certain point, the bridge tends to swing, most likely when I am hugging one side to avoid the place where the wood has broken.  Once across, I spend a few moments calming my breathing before starting the long climb up the valley.  This bridge makes me nervous.  Yesterday, however, I had a revelation.  I was halfway across when I realized that I cross the same bridge every month, and it has yet to break beneath my feet.  In fact, despite the swaying, the wood has a quite sturdy feel to it. 

In my particular area, it is easy to see modernization grabbing hold.  In Tantará almost no one wears traditional dress anymore.  In Huamatambo there is more, but still mostly among older women.  Both communities used to speak Quechua, yet the current generation is not learning it like their parents did.  Many families choose to sell what they grow in the field in exchange for packaged noodles brought up from the coast.  It can be sad and frustrating seeing the scraps of lost traditions being buried by televisions and cell phones. 

As I paused in my moment of tranquility during what is normally a mildly traumatic experience, I found comfort in the fact that this bridge is still here.  For countless years these two communities have come together to ensure that it stays standing, and thus far they have succeeded.  It is comforting to know that amongst all the change, both good and bad, there are still some things that stay the same.  The old lady on the corner will always stop me to ask detailed health questions in Quechua, my host mom will always offer me tea and soup before bed, and the bridge will always terrify me but I will always make it safely across.  Once on solid ground and staring up and the daunting mountain I was about to climb, I made a mental note to go help on the day they fix the bridge this coming year.  Besides obviously wanting to be apart of the tradition, maybe if I help maintain the bridge, I won’t be as nervous to cross it.