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IN THE TRAILS
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IN THE TRAILS OF THE FOREST

Flights of height

Take off toward the immensity, in spite of the immortal weed that was hooked in the pleats of the parapente, in spite of the whims of the scanty wind...

The objective fulfilled: participating paragliders and hang-gliders in the First Ecosport- Adventure Festival of Cotahuasi 2001 organized by the Latin American Association of Adventure Sports (Village) and the Association Đam Peru - dared to usurp the territory of the condors, to demonstrate that the skies of the deepest canyon in the world (county of The Union, Arequipa), are suitable for the practice of the flight.

It is not to be a wet blanket or pessimist, but everything is useless, gentleman. Bad grass never dies, maybe nobody has heard the proverb. The proverbs are truer than all the truths meeting, said my deceased dad who was a sage, but his wisdom doesn't , this story is of a later story, because now the problem is another.

This doesn't have remedy. Just look at that young boy, he doesn't even know to throw a good blow with a machete. I at that yes I was good. Zas! it hits the side and zas! toward the other one. The grass fell yielded at my feet... ah, but not the weed, that never dies, so for the sake of it you give all, but the area won't be free neither of powder neither of straw.

It is not that it is negative. I repeat it once again so that they have no doubts. but with frankness and good intention, I tell you that these boys - how did he say they were called..., ah yes, paragliders and hang-gliders- they won't fly neither a couple of meters, the cutters finish like this killing all the grass - the good and the bad - of the hill Huay˝au.

I am so sure if I had money I would bet - but don't I have even a cent, also, my dad - who was a sage, did I already tell you that? - did I repeat myself more than a hundred thousand times that trust was better than betting, good, is what you meant that it lacks air and without air you cannot fly or do you maybe take a motor hidden in some part?

I admit that I would not like to be right, because in the bottom of my heart these kids cause me heartache. Imagine, to come until here with so big a bundle and chatting excitedly like parrots, not to do anything; good, at least they can contemplate the landscape. It is beautiful, is it not true. Look at the hills greens or peeled, the fields reddish from the kiwicha cultivations... ah, Cotahuasi, my town, from here it lokks like a scale model.

My deceased dad - doesn't laugh, I will no longer tell you that he was a sage - he told me that thousands of years, these lands were inhabited by some very bad devils: the Waraka Governess (the Wave of Death), and the Wama Rupaj (the Bird that burns) that made the waters of the rivers boil; also, he said that here the Chancas reigned until the XIII century, when the region was invaded by the bands of the Inca Capac Yupanqui.

Good, I am distracted by the wanderings of my memory. Hey, what is happening, why are you all so quiet...

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Beside the condors

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