Walking down to Cosnipata

Walking down the rough mountain road to Cosnipata,
White mists swirl across the sunny blue sky
And the vast green valley vista.
The distant gray mountains appear and disappear.
Hazy siloetts of trees are there and then not there.
The light mists enshroud us,
Becoming a thick gray fog.
Suddenly it is cold.
Our camera´s are put away, coats go on, hoods up.
Soon rain pelts down.
As quickly as it begins, it rolls away
And the sunny day reappears.
The light sparkles on wet wild flowers,
In orange and yellow and blue,
As well as tiny purple orchids.
Around the corner,
Three young teenaged girls,
All with amber skin and thick black hair,
Amble by to school in Aucapata.
They´re wearing light-colours sweater sets
Full velvet skirts and sandles.
They must be wet but they don´t look it.
Shyly they return our greetings.
Soon a cluster of boys race by,
Pushing each other and calling out
Bieno Diez, Good Morning.
Eventually, we leave the downhill road
And start up a steep long uphill path.
I am exhausted, although by now,
I should be acclimatized to the thin mountain air.
I have to keep stopping to let all my muscles rest,
And my thumpìng heart return to normal.
At the crest, a small adobe casa sits
Cantilevered over the valley.
The dooryard is filled with animals, laundry and life.
A smiling woman races up from their casa to greet us.
Finally we arrive at Cosnipata School.
Twenty two young brown faces with lively dark oval eyes watch us.
It is hard to to get them to relax and smile.
They are worried.
They want to do everything just right.
I open my pack and pull our my purse paints.
Suddenly, they are my students.
We paint together,
We use pastells on coloured paper,
We build with tooth picks and pasticine.
We make a big mess
And have a glorious time.