Buying a donkey in Peru, as it turns out, is not the easiest thing to do. Which, if you have ever been to Peru, may surprise you, as they are everywhere. More ubiquitous than the llama, almost as common as the cow, donkeys are used on every trek, they can be found in every field.
Buying one should be easy. Or so we thought.
Depending on how you count it, buying a donkey in Peru took us either 3 weeks, or 4 days.
Okay, so why on earth were Steve and I trying to buy a donkey in the first place? We had this crazy idea to walk across Peru, from the ocean to the Amazon. But we really didn't fancy carrying all our supplies on our backs. It would be possible, but painful with resupply points unreliable. So we decided to buy a donkey to help us out.
The mission started when we arrived in Chimbote in late August, 2015. Chimbote is a fairly large port city in Peru. Most people told us to be careful, it was dangerous. We got a room in a small hospedaje, the cheapest version of a hotel in Peru, and went out to walk around the town.
A young girl, probably late teens early 20s, who was working at a cell phone booth, got to talking to us, so we mentioned we wanted to purchase a donkey. Hmm, not in Chimbote, she told us, but outside, in the chakras, or farm fields, in a town called Santa. But, she warned us, donkeys were very expensive, 2,500 soles (which in American is about $700... WAY more than we wanted to pay).
But it was our first lead. So off we went, next day to Santa, a smaller much more agricultural town outside of Chimbote. Found an agricultural products store and asked them, Busco un burro? Donde se vende? (I'm looking for a donkey, where are they sold?)
We are told.. no not in Santa! This is a town! Silly gringos, go out to the chakras!
Into a moto and out to the rural area we go. And there the moto leaves us. Standing in a deserted collection of 5 mudbrick houses. No one around. Donkeys in all the open spaces.
What was there to do? We didn't know, so we walked down the street until we found someone. Eventually we ran into a guy, using an ox to plow his field so he could plant his quinoa. We asked him about the donkey and he said he might know someone, so he calls a friend but pretty quickly we get the soon to be standard response 'nooo, no hay' (There aren't any).
He asks us, why do we want one? So we explain, we are looking for a donkey to carry our stuff from the ocean, up and over 2 mountain ranges, and out into the amazon jungle.
He looks alarmed. No, these donkeys, he tells us, are burros costeños (costal donkeys). A walk like that would kill them. They aren't made for carrying heavy things.
Well, another hour of fruitless searching and we decide to listen to this man's wisdom. I have to assume he knew more about his donkeys than we did. We decide, with much trepidation, to complete stage one of our walk, from the ocean, up and over the Cordillera Negra, and down into the Huaraz valley, sans donkey.
Probably the most painful decision of my entire life. But that is material for a whole different post.
14 days later and we've made it to the end of stage 1. We are in the bustling metropolis that is Huaylas, Peru.
Imagine crickets chirping. Wind whistling. Tumbleweed rolling by.
Huaylas, which had been our mecca for 2 weeks, is a ghost town. The tiendas are empty. There is one hotel and we appear to be the only guests. The market has one lady in it who, at 2pm, doesn't appear to be serving lunch.
We despair.
But over the next 4 days, this ghost town slowly comes to life around us and I come to love it.
The one lady who works in the market, her name is Maria and she becomes one of our biggest supporters in town. Every day she makes us breakfast and asks how the donkey search is going. On day 2, she calls up her son, and he and his cousin take us up the mountains to several villages, asking around for a donkey. We head up to tiny rural communities without cars and ask everyone we see if they have donkeys available. We are greeted by a chorus of 'nooo, no hay'. But to give our guide, Ibo, credit, he never gives up and even commiserates with us: que hacemos? We were his friends and he was going to help us, no question.
On day 3, Maria takes us herself through town to ask some friends about donkeys. Even when we are away, she goes BY HERSELF to a different pueblo and actually finds someone willing to sell a donkey to us.
Not to mention Maria is incredibly kind, friendly, and welcoming. Her help turned Huaylas from a ghost town closed off to us to a living Peruvian community of which we are briefly a part.
Hmmm.. day 2 in the morning we take a walk through Huaylas, the next town, and all the farm fields in between. We speak with everyone who crosses our path. People ask us where we are staying, so they can find us if they do find a donkey. A man offers to sell us his, but he wants 800 soles, still way more than we are willing to pay.
Day 3, of the Huaylas search, was the day of success. After Maria took us to meet her friends without success, we went back and asked the man who owned our hotel if he knew anyone.
And so we are off again, following señor through the town to the house of a woman who may own a donkey. Well, she doesn't know of anyone, we get another 'noooo, no hay' and are about to give up, when a tiny campesiña woman walks by and our host calls out to her, does she know anyone who wants to sell a donkey.
For the first time, we don't hear 'nooo, no hay' Instead, as if in a dream, I hear her say, my mother wanted to sell hers, let me call her.
Her mother is an 88 year old Peruvian woman who is as small as child, but tough as nails and sweet as sugar. She says yes, she has a donkey, a female, who is made to carry things through the mountains, and she would like 250 soles for her.
Perfect.
Off we go with Felicity, not the 88 year old mother, but the daughter. She takes us down 'just 15 minutes' to the chakra where the donkey lives.
And the donkey is perfect. She is sweet, mild tempered, with healthy teeth, healthy feet, a good weight, and a clean, healthy coat of hair. I couldn't be happier.
We work out the details with Felicity and head back up towards town. I expect it to be the end of it, but no. Felicity takes us into her home and makes us a delicious lunch from scratch. Canchita (peruvian toasted corn), a pea soup, and a vegetarian dish of veggies and potatoes over rice. During all of this she tells us about her life, raising a daughter by herself, making sure her daughter stayed in school. Her problems with monkey and her life struggles. It was one of the most amazing experiences I have had in Peru.
And after lunch? She has us help her herd her sheep down to the fields below town.
And that, is how you buy a donkey in Peru.
