“The Perfect Shot”
Morgan Whyte
“I have a perfect vision for my next Instagram post¾want to help me?” my friend, Julie, enthusiastically asks. “Imagine it¾us hiking through the mountains of Northern Argentina, following the exact route that the Incan Empire once used, alongside the region’s famous alpaca.” Her face lights up as she envisions this picturesque shot, as well as the hundreds of subsequent ‘likes’ that would follow.
I hesitate. I’m not the type of person who regularly posts on Instagram. My meager five posts a year can attest to my lack of Instagram presence. Going on a hike in search of the perfect Instagram post wasn’t exactly my ideal vacation. But hey, what the heck, I thought. We were staying in an Airbnb for the weekend, and Julie’s vision was just a two-hour bus ride away. We had a weekend away from our study aboard program, we might as well take advantage of it. Eventually I convince myself to go¾I do love hiking, and it sounds like an adventure. I tell myself. Plus, I’ve always wanted to see an alpaca up close.
“Alright, I’m in. Let’s find some alpacas.”
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Julie and I climb aboard an old twelve-passenger van headed to Purmamarca in northern Argentina¾a quaint town in the Quebrada de Humahuaca valley, adjacent to the major cultural route, the Camino Inca. Not only is this area known as the start of the historical trade route for the Incan Empire, it is also known for the large population of alpacas that range through the desert mountains. Perfect. No doubt that we’ll see some. Julie and I grab window seats and watch the landscape palette change from dark greens to light yellows and beiges¾as we travel through forests to the dry desert mountain ranges.
The van comes to a creaking halt, stirring up a cloud of sandy dust. We have arrived. Julie and I excitedly jump out. I cough a bit from inhaling the desert sand and look around. The town itself is charming, with its adobe houses, white church, and cactus carpentry. Past the white church reads an old wooden sign “Dale al Sendero.” A burst of excitement hits me as we begin to walk over to hit the trails.
We spend several hours hiking through the mountain valley, where the mountain’s colors gradually go from beige to red, passing through green, grey and yellow, each layer of sediment rock a distinct hue. It looks as if Mother Nature had carefully placed one layer on top of the other.
Throughout the entire hike, I expect to look out and see dozens of alpacas, meandering through the mountain trails. I reach each lookout with a jumping feeling of hopefulness. Only to be let down by a barren, alpaca-less scene. There was nothing. Nada.
“Somebody must have photoshopped all those tourists brochures,” Julie bitterly remarks as she crosses her arms in disappointment.
We continue hiking for a few more hours, snapping photos here and there. The trails are filled with views of the colorful mountain valley, giant cactuses, and small lizards that scamper across the trail. But still no alpacas. It feels like a sense of cruel irony¾the famous land of the alpaca has no alpacas.
It starts getting late and the van is scheduled to leave soon, so Julie and I make our way back to town. We follow the same trail back, walking in silent disappointment.
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On the way back, the main road is closed due to construction, forcing the bus driver to take us off the beaten track and onto a small gravel road. Actually, calling it a road is too generous. It’s more like a wide dirt pathway marked by large rocks and randomly placed flagpoles. Suddenly, it feels as if I’m riding a wooden roller-coaster¾huge (and frequent) bumps almost throw me off my seat. My entire body is inadvertently shaking from the terrain.
Julie and I sullenly sit in the back of the bus, looking and feeling like pouty kindergarteners who didn’t get a chance to see their favorite animal at the zoo. I place my head off the side of the window, trying to see the view through the cloud of sand kicked up by the van along this back-country “road.” The town begins to shrink out of sight as we drive out to what appears to be the middle of nowhere.
Twenty minutes into this wooden roller-coaster ride, Julie joyfully screams as she points out the window.
“Stop the bus!”
I squint through the window, trying to see what she was she’s all excited about. There, just a few feet from the road is a herd of maybe thirty alpacas, calmly grazing on large tufts of grass. We quickly run off the bus, phones in hand. It was not long until all twelve passengers of the van were loudly snapping selfies with the alpacas. With the alpacas just a few feet away from us, our phones fill with touristy shots. Julie and I have the widest smiles. Finally¾the kindergarteners found their favorite animal.
A blissful two minutes pass before the situation takes a frightening turn.
“Look out!!!” a random passenger of the van screams.
Huh? Before I can even comprehend what it is that I need to “look out” for, I turn to see an alpaca running straight at Julie. She is about 20 feet from me, too far for me to rush in to save her from the impending blow. I’m forced to watch as a helpless bystander. The alpaca’s head stands a good foot taller than Julie. Its fur coat is a light shade of brown with the texture of an old mangled teddy bear’s clumped fur. Its presence resembles an old ornery man¾and we just trespassed onto his precious backyard.
In mid-selfie, Julie screams as the alpaca’s giraffe-like neck pushes her off into the ditch of the road, forcefully enough to send her surging into a dead desert bush.
I can only steal a glance in her direction to check that she’s okay until I spin around to see the alpaca’s territorial eyes locked on me. We stand about 20 feet from each other, like one of those old Wild West cowboy shootouts, each waiting for the other to make the first move. Reality quickly sets in and the butterflies in my stomach turn into feelings of terror. This cannot be happening. I mummer a couple curse words to myself and make a beeline to the van.
Apparently, my middle school track-days are useless when trying to outrun an angry alpaca. Just ten feet from the van door, the alpaca catches me and rears its head into the side of my leg. I fall hard to the ground. That’s going to leave a bruise. I look up, waiting in terror for this alpaca to finish me off. But it pridefully just tilts its chin up, as if it feels a sense of accomplishment for successfully taking me out, and it turns its attention elsewhere.
Thank goodness. Guess it only wanted to show me who’s boss. I sigh in relief as it positions its body towards another target and begins charging in their direction.
The next targets are a 20-something year old female and a middle age man. The alpaca dashes in their direction, first forcefully brushing into the young female then immediately continuing on to man. It looks like a game of dominos, where the alpaca is the all-powerful finger that easily takes down the meager human dominos. One after another.
The alpaca continues knocking out each human domino, and it is not until the majority of the bus passengers have faced the alpaca do I feel safe enough to stand up. I look around to assess the damage. No one appears to be severely injured. No broken bones. No blood. Just pure surprise, shock, and amazement. I think to myself, they should add to the tourist brochures “Careful, alpacas are territorial.” That would have been nice to know.
Now that the alpaca has clearly showed us naïve tourists that this is its land, not ours, it trots away to join the rest of its herd. Julie and I scramble back onto the bus. I quickly plop down back into my seat, trying to catch my breath and calm my rapid heartbeat. As I begin to nurse the soon-to-be purple bruise on my leg, Julie¾with small twigs and sand still intertwined in her hair¾nudges me on the shoulder.
“You’ll never believe the shot I got,” she smiles wide and holds out her phone, showing me a selfie of her with an angry alpaca in mid-stride, and me in the background with a face of terror. The perfect Instagram shot.
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