Intro
The morning in Yunga didn’t break with the usual high-altitude sun; instead, it arrived with a persistent rain that turned the concrete main street into a slick, grey ribbon. I woke up with a throat that felt like it had been scraped with a wire brush, a sharp pain that made every swallow a conscious effort. My legs were ready for the push toward Ichuna, but my lungs were staging a protest, leaving me grounded in a town where the side streets are paved with stone pumas and the restaurants are mostly a myth.
The Breakfast Gambit
- By 09:00, the hunger was more aggressive than the cough. I wandered the wet streets of Yunga, asking anyone with an open door where a person might find a meal. The answers were a chorus of ‘no’ until I found a small eatery where the owner initially shook her head, insisting they only served lunch. I stayed, leaning against the doorframe, my voice a raspy shadow of itself, until the ‘no’ softened into a ‘maybe.’ A few minutes later, she brought out a plate of rice, fried eggs, and broccoli. It wasn’t on the menu, but it was exactly what I needed.
- The highlight, however, was the tea. I sat there as the sharp, medicinal steam of hot tea rose from the mug, clearing my sinuses for a few fleeting minutes. I watched the rain hit the pavement outside, rhythmic and cold. I managed to convince my landlady back at the hotel to take my laundry. Having clean clothes after the grit of the Salinas Huito climb felt like a luxury I hadn’t earned, but I wasn’t about to turn it down.
Stasis and Sandpaper
- The middle of the day was a blur of digital maintenance and physical stillness. I retreated to my room to update the expense app and finish a few blog entries, my body grateful for the horizontal position. To kill the time, I fell down a YouTube rabbit hole, watching videos about fishing and identity fraud—strange, disconnected topics that felt surreal while sitting in a remote Peruvian village. My throat remained a constant companion, a dull ache that flared every time I tried to speak.
- Lunch was a return to the same spot, but the magic had faded. They served a chicken soup that was decent enough, but the main course was a struggle. It was a slab of pork that had been cooked into submission, accompanied by a mountain of rice and potatoes. I remember the dry, chalky friction of overcooked rice against my sore throat; it was like trying to swallow gravel. I picked out the green beans from the salad and left the lettuce—a rule I’ve learned to live by to avoid more serious stomach issues—but I left the table feeling more full than fueled.
The Gas Flask Gourmet
- By evening, Yunga had effectively shut down. Every door I knocked on and every person I asked about dinner gave me the same blank stare. It became clear that if I wanted to eat, I’d have to build the meal myself. I went to the small shop beneath my hotel and asked—half-expecting another rejection—if I could use their private kitchen. To my surprise, they agreed. I bought a bag of semolina, a carton of milk, some fruit, and an egg, then headed into the belly of the building.
- The kitchen was a disaster zone. While my room was pristine, the communal cooking space was a landscape of dark grey footprints on a white floor, with every surface layered in a film of grease and old food. The only thing that looked safe was a single pan and the sink. Then there was the stove—a high-security risk if I’ve ever seen one. The knobs were useless decorations. To get fire, I had to listen for the metallic screech of the 11kg gas valve as I turned it directly on the tank, striking a match and hoping for the best.
- My camping pot was too small for the industrial burners, so I improvised a double-boiler. I filled the shop’s pan with water, set it on the flame, and placed my own pot inside it. For thirty minutes, I stood there in the dim light, stirring the milk and semolina constantly to keep it from burning. The result was a thick, warm semolina pudding enriched with a whisked egg. I carried it up to my room like a trophy, eating it in the quiet of my own space. It was the first thing all day that didn’t feel like sandpaper going down.
Overnight
I’m staying in a hotel in Yunga. The room itself is surprisingly clean and quiet, providing a necessary sanctuary for recovery, even if the communal kitchen downstairs looks like a crime scene.
Reflection
When the town shuts its doors, you have to learn how to operate a malfunctioning gas flask if you want to eat.