A goatish odyssey
The Rooster sings, still at night.
It is cold at dawn at 3000 meters above sea level.
Still in the height of summer.
In the "puesto" La Casa de el Medio.
Martina is the first to bustle.
She lights the fire.
She prepares mates.
The crew stretches out and we gets ready to go.
Doña Martina and her sister Doña Coca with her daughters Reina and Valeria and her son Julio.
Also Pierino, Martina's son.
A few quick mates, or tea, or nothing, a sip of water.
Inti, the Sun, still does not appear over the hills, the Cordillera de Buenaventura.
The herd waits in the creek.
More than a thousand goats, and some sheep.
They have to be locked in the corral.
The first rays of the Sun appear.
They have to separate the goats from their mothers, find the "guachitos" and have other mothers breastfeed them.
And "lechar", milk, the goats.
And mark the goats that will travel to other hills.
And separate them from those that remain ando those that go.
Those which will not travel aim to the mountains to browse.
They will return to their creek at sunset.
After this task comes breakfast, mate with homemade bread and jam.
While fermenting the milk for cheese.
Two pieces of cheese as a result of the effort.
Eighty-something goats start the march towards Las Papas walking through imposing hills.
You have to go down the "cuesta del caracol", nobody knows its age, the Ancient people made it, to the river.
Tino, Coca's son, and his sons, awaits us in Las Papas.
He came along with the truck. Tino lends his corral and invites lunch.
After lunch, the goats get into the truck and the tortuous descent begins, fording the river, stranding on the sand.
After midnight we reached Fiambalá.
The truck, Martina, Kiko, her husband, and Pierino and the driver continued their journey.
At six o'clock, before dawn, the goats arrived at their new home, in "Pastos Largos", in the Andes.
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