My flights were typical. Even though I am going south of the equator I’m still going through Atlanta. You can’t go out for a pack of smokes in the South without going through Atlanta. After a six-hour layover in the peach state, my second flight left at midnight.
I have a hard enough time falling asleep in my homeopathic waterbed with the sleep inducing feather mattress and ermine blankets at home. Sleeping in the dignity deprivation chambers they call airplane seats is a bad joke. I got a few hours of sleep and sore muscles.
The flight landed around 6:30AM. I passed through customs. This was not Russia, if you’re wondering, so that was pretty easy. A stamp on a bare corner of my passport and-wait, That’s all? You’re done, Señor Customs man? Wow, comrade.
I got my bags, they make you play tidily-winks with luggage on international flights. Then checked into my local flight to my final destination. Then boarded a flight to…
Cusco, Peru!
Yes. This is my Cusco vacation. The vacation to Cusco. The vacation specially designed to kill Cusco. (That vacation?) Except no-one died, especially me!
I got off the plane and nearly fell over. Not from the breathtaking beauty, but from the breathtaking lack of oxygen to breathe.
When I visited Yellowstone National Park, I found myself getting winded climbing the stairs around the mineral volcanos. “That doesn’t make sense," I thought. “I’m not in THAT bad shape. Oh, right. I’ve lived my life under 100 meters vertically from sea level. Yellowstone betters that by around 2400 meters (7900 feet.)”
At 3400 meters (11,191 feet,) Cusco betters (worsens?) that by 40 percent. “Suck it up, Jon,” I gasped. By which I meant, “Suck up as much air as Cusco has to spare.”
In preparation for this trip, I have lost about 25 pounds over the past year and spent a lot of time just walking to get in shape. It didn’t work. This is the tale of a near seventy year old man wandering around the Andes of Peru, hiking and climbing like a geriatric Llama. Oh, the spirit was willing and all that crap, but spirit doesn’t get you up a mountain in the morning. It was hard enough walking up the stairs to my hotel room.
I got my ride to the Hotel Royal Inka in central Cusco. I am joining a hiking tour of Cusco and environs, including Salkantay trail, hiking and camping, and, of course, Macho Picchu. Yes, they provide Oxygen.
My driver to the hotel was enthusiastic about Cusco and about Peru in general, the species of birds native there, the culture, which is unique, the history.
He said they had some problem last year and there were no tourists for four months. I kinda, sorta thought I had heard something about it. Government troubles.
For an economy so entwined in tourism, this must have been devastating. This must be why I got a deal on this tour. Cryptically, he said the government increased police coverage all over the city, so it is very safe now. I did see a lot of police on the streets-some with riot gear. Whatever happened last December must have been pretty unpleasant. But for now, everything was peaceful. The people are preparing for their Winter Solstice celebrations, which are a highlight of the year in Peru.
He went over my itinerary. The tour starts tomorrow. I will meet my guide in the lobby of the hotel. From there we will visit a few museums, which he pointed out to me along the way, along with several palaces, temples, and churches. Typical tourist sights.
I waited for my room to be ready for me and then took a nap.
I woke up feeling like I had been trampled by a herd of solid gold Alpacas. Did I mention I have a cold, too? How does one catch a cold in Florida? The same way one catches a cold anywhere else, I guess. By being near the wrong germs at the wrong time.
Between the jet lag, Oxygen deprivation, a head cold, and lack of sleep, I should consider myself lucky I am standing at all, which I wasn’t when I first woke up. When my rickety frame started responding in a more or less reticulating manner, I went out to explore.
The first thing that beset me on the steps of the hotel were the trinket barkers. Four or five women were selling handmade carpets or ponchos or something.
“Señor! You like? Is my last one.”
“No, thank you.”
“See. I have these, too.”
“Maybe later.” That was a mistake.
“Oh, you come back? My name is Hortense. I will be here. You buy then.”
That paved the way for the rest of my day. You cannot stray further than a credit card swipe in downtown Cuzco without being offered original paintings, official guides, geegaws, gaily colored Alpaca wool dolls, or some crap.
One guy pointed to my shoes and mumbled something. “What’s wrong with my shoes?” I thought, making the mistake of looking down at them instead of kicking him with them. There was nothing wrong with my shoes. He just wanted to shine them.
“Oh. No, gracias,” I said cheerily.They’re hiking boots. You don’t shine hiking boots. Act like a native. Blend in.
Maybe that’s what happened last December? The city was overwhelmed by merchant barbarians?
Note: A friend of mine read this and found it familiar. “Sounds like India,” she said. She should know. She’s from there.
Another place I will visit some day…
I just fell into a rhythm of brushing them aside, shaking my head and saying, “No, thank you,” ignoring them, politely, of course, and walking on as if I hadn’t heard them or they weren’t talking to me.
“Senior…”
“No habla Espanol.”
“English?”
“l don’t speak English, either.” That always confuses them.
It was like downtown Manhattan.
The second cultural shock were the car horns. Everywhere was a cacophony of cars. Every car an instrument. Every driver a virtuoso. Every street a section. Every square a sound chamber of Carnegie acoustic quality. Every traffic light a metronome. All of Cusco the Royal Inka Philharmonic.The symphony: A Cacophony in C Major Pain by A. Grief.
The cars and the buzzing merchants made up a Rhapsody in Blare.
I like to travel to a place a day early if I am joining a group so I can acclimate a little bit, see some sights, maybe take in a show or something, or just to see some of the local color. What with the vertical assault and ‘level’ being a bizarre concept only a non-Peruvian could come up with, (like ‘horizontal’) this one needed all the acclimation I could get out of it.
I found a very nice place for dinner called the KusyKay, which means ‘happiness’ or ‘happy talk’ in Quechua, one of the Inkan languages. I had the Trout ceviche with Tiger sauce and an Alpaca Loin with Port Sauce, with local potatoes and maize and a Tres Leches. The staff was very helpful and friendly and gave me a cup of tea and an extra something at the end, plus a packet of herbs to make some more tea later. I’m sure there were coca leaves in it. Or at least I hope so. I think they were impressed at my attempts at Spanish. Or they were amused.
That did it for the first day. Tomorrow, I meet my tour guide and the rest of the group. Hasta mañana.
Day 1
After a typical European style breakfast, with Incan twists like papaya and passion fruit juice, I went out to explore. I chose a direction and followed it. The direction in question was roughly the way I had come from the airport the day before.
But I took a road a few streets to the right. It was under severe road construction, meaning there would be no one selling blankets, shining shoes, offering menus, or asking if I wanted my picture taken with a Llama. Why not? No-one could tell which was which.
Instead, I found a very pretty city, after I escaped the road construction. There were little parks with quaint fountains and statues, store front shops, and people driving crazy.
Oops! Not to denigrate our friends South of the Equator. Driving ‘muy loco.’ There, that’s better.
They drive nuts down here. It must be something in the ‘lack of’ air. And also accounts for the plentitude of traffic cops. Sometimes the traffic resembled card shuffling an extended blackjack deck that are all jokers where the dealer wears a mask all the time and chuckles to himself in Quechua. I’m not kidding. Cars will kind of weave around each other, sometimes going in opposite lanes in opposite directions. And that’s in the city!
On the back roads (ahem. ‘Roads,’ is another weak concept) the weak are eaten by the less weak. Wait. That’s the jungle. The slow are passed by the less slow, whether you can see if anybody is coming or not. Great fun on a switchback halfway up, or down, a mountain.
I walked seven and a half miles that day. Most of it around
the city on my own, trying to acclimate to the Cusco topography and atmospheric
sense of humor. The longest I hiked in a single day was just over thirteen
miles a few days later. I have been preparing for this trip for a year now,
having lost 25 lbs. and walking considerably to get in shape back in Florida. Had I not I’m
sure I’d be dead now and you’d all be bemoaning your friend’s demise or
wondering whatever happened to what’s-his-chops, the crazy guy with the overactive
passport? The only part of me I could not beef up were my lungs, sadly. This is not Florida, after all. Not by a long shot. Not by a long, nearly vertical, shot.
At 2:00 I met the rest of my company. Ernesto was our guide. He described himself as half Inca. Cool, I’m half something, too. We had a lot in common.
The rest of our company consisted of Cortney and Jeff. That’s it. One guide and three to be guided. One Inca chief and three Gringo Indians.
Cool.
The last tour I was on included a whole trainload of ‘Smithsonian People,’ who were obviously potential donors, and we were on a luxury train, wined, dined and captive audienced. It was a nice trip and all, but much too structured for my tastes. I like a trip where I can wander off at nights and get into trouble with the locals. That wasn’t an expedition, it was an exposition.
This was nice. Much more of the adventure I enjoy getting lost on.
We walked around the city. Ernesto gave us a multi-museum pass and we visited a few museums in Cusco. A history museum with some excavated Inca houses carefully preserved inside. These had the classic granite blocks locked together Tetris style that you always see in alternative history shows insisting that real people could not have done engineering this precise with stone tools so they must have been made by aliens or time traveling Irish laborers. The Nazca lines are also a part of the Inca, or Inka as I saw it spelled in Peru, empire, so aliens must really like them. Some blocks were open so we could see what they looked like inside and get a glimpse of their construction, alien or Inka.
That was crazy. The blocks have holes bored in them where to come together and look like some kind of insect nest. Either to save weight or to allow them to be locked together with pins. Either way, the buildings were cleverly built and very earthquake tolerant and the engineering even more impressive, whoever did it.
Day 2
This started out easy enough. The lobby of the hotel has a carafe of coca tea, yes, that coca. In its non-refined form, coca tea is about as stimulating as coffee, less so than a strong Starbucks' espresso. Breakfast was the usual European style meal, healthy, hearty and varied. There was cheese but they don’t seem to drink a lot of milk in Peru. Oh, they had cream for coffee, but for the cereal they had soy milk.
After breakfast we met Ernesto and rode out of Cusco. First stop was a shop that sold various Alpaca and Llama textiles, as well as had a show of how they are made out back. They gave us tea and demonstrated spinning yarn and weaving cloth and making the various color dies for the finished products. Ernesto said we had to be careful what we bought in Cusco, and who we bought it from. Some of the ‘genuine Llama’ items are fake. Basically, if they are too cheap to be true, they aren’t.
I got a couple of gifts, and a nice poncho and hat for myself. Going native already!
After that we visited the village of Chinchero, a little place further out of town with some farming terraces and ruins that had been rebuilt into churches by the Spanish. That was a theme, of course. The Spanish conquistadors and padres, spearheaded by Cortez and his many spears, had arrived in the sixteenth century during a civil war in the Inka empire. This made conquering them easier, divide and conquer, play one side against the other. Standard empire dirty tricks.
There were the usual little shops and souks selling water, food, and trinkets. Plus about a hundred school children in blue uniforms on a field trip. The June solstice, winter for them, is a big celebration here and has been for centuries. During the whole month of June, they have parades and celebrations in the cities. I had noticed that Cusco had people rehearsing, singing, and dancing in the squares in colorful costumes within a block of my hotel. It’s nice to see that community spirit.
There was some construction going on in the distance around Chinchero. Ernesto said they are building an international airport here. It should be done in a couple of years. That will make it more convenient to reach Cusco.
Our next stop was the Moray Agriculture research site. This consisted of concentric terraces built into a hill and was used by the ancient Inkans to simulate different climates. The Inkans used it to determine which crops grew in which climates, or how to manufacture an artificial climate to grow food where it naturally would prefer not to. Coca plants, for instance, grow below 2000 meters, whereas potatoes, yucca, and yams grow from 2000-3000 meters. I forget where maize likes to grow. The Inkas were able to use the terraces to encourage some plants to grow at different altitudes, making their agriculture more versatile. It’s a classic human case of vegetable husbandry.
Day 3
Today we began our trek in earnest, no pun intended toward our guide.
Speaking of Earnest. Our guide offered us a Peruvian treat right off the bat. He showed us how to chew coca leaves. “You take a handful of leaves,” he said, offering a plastic bag full of what looked like Bay leaves. “And break off the stems,” demonstrating as he spoke. “Then take some of these Stevia leaves,” taking something from the bag that looked like thyme but was sweet. “And roll them up together. See?”
We saw. “And now you put them against your cheek and chew them.
The experience was OK. Something you had to grow up with, like smoking I guess. It felt like I had a mouth full of mildly sweet herbs that, maybe, should be in a crock pot full of stew. I didn’t exactly find them helpful, so I only tried them once. It’s something that has to grow on you, I suppose.
We stopped briefly to visit some salt pools. These were built in the valley below a salt spring. No-one knows why but this mountain has a reservoir of prehistoric salt and an aquifer that dissolves the salt and trickles out in a saline spring. There are many of these around the world. This one has a convenient flow of water through it and a spring pouring out into an equally convenient valley. There, people have been channeling the salt water into little trays specially built into the valley, then blocking the flow of the water so it can evaporate. They do this during the dry season, which had just started now.
Families each own several pools, which they tend weekly. A family member will come to their pools and open the gates, letting saltwater flood in. Then they will leave them for a week or two to evaporate, then return to flood them again until the pools are full of salt. They then crush the salt with their feet, bag it, and bring it to be further processed.
They get different grades, from a black salt that is only good for medicinal purposes, such as salt baths, to pink and white salt. The pink salt can be smoked to produce a distinctive flavor.
From here we hiked from Soraypampa to lake Humantay, about 3850 meters above sea level. This hike is considered ‘moderately challenging.’ Ernesto, having observed my struggles with oxygen processing, suggested I charter a horse from a stable at the beginning of the hike. Since I was still acclimating to the O2 deficiency, I gladly agreed. The rental was something like 80 solers, about $27.00 (there are about 3.1 solers to the dollar or about 27 cents each.) Worth it. Particularly once I got out of the ‘easy’ part and started climbing. I mean, once Mr. Ed started climbing. I was glad I did.
At the top, the last few hundred feet had to be done sans horse, was a mountain lake. Quite beautiful and clear. We rested, had some snacks and water-don’t drink from the lake, and then took the much less taxing, but still difficult way down. One older gentleman went nimbly down the hill before us. “He’s 83 years old,” said Ernesto.
From there we still had to climb up to our campsite, a trip maybe not as steep, but longer than the path to Humantay lake. Cortney and Jeff went ahead and Ernesto kept with me. “Take your time, Jon,” said Ernesto. “Oh, I know, Ernesto. I’m not running a marathon! I can do this. I’ve been walking and getting in shape for a year now. It’s just the lack of oxygen that I’m not prepared for. And having a cold doesn’t help. As long as I can stop and catch my breath, I’ll be alright.” “Victor let me know that he has an extra horse,” he said. “If you needed it, he can rent you one for today and tomorrow for 120 solers.” “Maybe I’ll take him up on it tomorrow, gracias.”
Today’s hike was to the camp site. Tomorrow’s would be up the pass of the Salkantay mountain. “No. I think I will be OK for today. As long as I can drink water and catch my breath once in a while.”
There was no hurry. Not like the trip to the lake. We were just walking to the camp site and then we’d have dinner and turn in. I really wasn’t that put out, physically, and I did not think I would be a burden to the rest of the troupe. I made it a point to take ibuprofen before each day’s hike, as well as a Sudafed for my sinuses, and drink plenty of water, of course. It was just the sheer lack of oxygen. Hardly something I could have planned for.
We took a little longer than the rest, biding our time and husbanding our strength. Well, husbanding my strength. There was still an hour or so before dinner once we reached the camp, but the hike was not bad, just taxing. Once I was at the camp site, I was fine.
Day 4
About six AM we were awoken to a gentle, ‘Buenos Dias,’ and a hot cup of coca tea at our tent flaps, along with a bowl of hot water to freshen up. I had slept OK, as best as can be expected since I am restless at night, anyway. The exertion of the day before helped, but sleeping on the ground is not something I do every day, so the two cancelled out. Plus the camp site, though built up specifically for tents, was not quiet level, level being something frowned upon in Peru, if not outright immoral! Still, it felt good in a sore muscle sort of way.
Our meals were all exceptional. Mario is a good cook, not just a good camp cook. We had chicken with Peruvian spices, cuscus, salads, desserts, tea, coffee, and juice. Mornings gave us omelets, fruit, bread and butter. And, of course, coca tea.
I let Ernesto know that I would be taking Victor up on his offer of a horse. He charged me 80 solers for the day. When we reached the top of the pass he took the horse and continued on to our next campsite. I gave him 100 solers.
Ernesto is a mixed culture person, of course. Half Inkan and have Spanish. So he carries traditions from both. For instance, he explained that coca leaves are not just a stimulant the natives use to keep alert during the day. Like most things in life, they are spiritual as well. A process we have lost in our world.
They might take some coca leaves and leave them as an offering to the mother earth spirit. But they don’t just dump leaves on a sacred rock. They take three leaves, the number three is significant to the Inkas, as well as to most other peoples of the world. The three leaves will be arranged in a ‘W’ shape like the spokes of a wheel and set on the makeshift altar facing east. At Machu Picchu, Ernest pointed out an excavation of a tomb which people had turned into a veneration site. There were coca leaves just scattered on a rock ledge by the tomb. He said that he found that disrespectful.
Back at the trail, he said, “One thing that we do at the Sulkantay pass is to take a small stone from the river and bring it to the top of the pass. We place the stone on another stone in a cairn and ask the mother earth for something such as good health or peace." I was on horseback and asked Ernest to select a stone for me.
The climb was very pleasant and longer, though less steep, than yesterday’s climb up to the lake. I was glad of the ride. This was going to be the most strenuous climb for the rest of the trip. I was glad to have done one tough leg the previous day but felt no desire to punish myself more than I must. For the remainder of the journey, I hoofed in on my own two hooves.
At the top, Victor helped me off the horse and I gave him his fee. “Gracias,” I stammered. “Cein soler for su, por favor.” I’m sure my Spanish was atrocious, but Victor was gracious.
I waited around the summit, being about 4600 meters ASL. In 45 minutes or so the rest of the gang showed up. We had a good rest, took pictures, and placed our good luck rocks on top of others.
And then we descended another three hours or so to our campsite registering at a paltry 2920 meters ASL to Campsite Number 2. This one had several buildings with electricity and Internet (for a fee, which I didn’t bother to pay) and more activity. And one more thing.
After dinner in a open air shelter, Ernesto warned us not to move. “There is a spider on the table,” he said, moving some of the plates away so we could see. It was tiny, black, and had an hourglass shape on its back.
It was a black widow spider. This is a jungle, after all.
With that, we retired, thoroughly scouring our tents with our eyes and our flashlights for any insect hazards and zipping ourselves up securely for the night.
Day 5
Today was just hiking, mostly steadily downward, toward the town of Collpabamba and our last camp site. We followed rivers, snaked up and down narrow paths, saw avocados and passion fruits growing by the roadside and narrow bridges over mountain streams. There were fields of corn on the mountainsides that appeared to have been planted by mountain goats. Mario packed us lunches of cold salad and chicken, bread, and a sweet for dessert.
Oh, one more thing. Mario would boil water for us every day so we could fill up our water bottles and not risk dysentery. And we could frequently buy water or juice at random booths along the path. Still, it was advisable to have at least a liter of water, I usually had more since my excessive panting left my mouth dry.
One stop along the way brought us to a coffee stand, which included all of the processing for coffee, from plant to bean to roasting to drinking. Like at the salt pools a few days before we could taste samples and buy some of the finished product.
At the afternoon we reached a little town. Civilization! We had a couple of choices, one involved more hiking and one involved visiting a local hot spring. Everyone was for the hot spring. For 10 solers we had access to four pools of varying temperature at the end of a dirt road. There was road construction going on, so eventually it will be more accessible. As it was, we had to walk the last few hundred meters to get to the facility.
The water was delightful, as hot water on sore muscles always is. The pools were next to a mountain (everywhere in Peru is next to a mountain, under a mountain, above a mountain, or IS a mountain,) which, as it were, was hot inside and full of water. Very convenient.
We stayed an hour or so, the limit is three hours and management can kick you out or make you pay 10 solers for an additional three hours, but there were no more than a dozen of us simmering in the pools and nobody bothered us. Finally, we showered, dressed, and headed back to the campsite, our last night roughing it.
After dinner we went into the town for a drink. Ernesto had been telling us about a Peruvian drink called Pica Sour. It’s exactly what it sounds like. A whiskey sour made from a local fruit whisky. I needed something from a pharmacy, so the group went to a restaurant and I stopped in a drug store next door.
I needed some band aids for my toes, which had blistered. I don’t know why I didn’t bring some with me. That one is a no brainer. But there it is. I’ll have to add some to my toiletries kit for next time.
The girl at the counter didn’t speak any English and my Spanish didn’t include ‘band aid.’ So I used Google translate. God bless the Google Continuum!
With some slight struggling, I got a roll of bandage material at first. Hmm. I don’t need something quite that severe.
“Venda?” I said. “Curita?” I finally got some simple band aids. “Cinco, por favor?” And I got five! “Oh, Crema antibiotica?” And I got a tube of antibiotic cream. She showed me the price on a calculator. 3.95. I had three Sol coins and 5 twenty cent pieces. She didn’t have exact change, so she gave me a piece of candy, instead, as change. That works. “Gracias,” I said and left.
In the restaurant, I found my friends with drinks ordered and a Meidong stacking game set up. For the next half hour, we semi-skillfully slid blocks around the teetering tower of Meidong. Each one of us crashed it at least once. Then we tried our hands at tic-tac-toe for a while.
The Pico sours were good. They also wanted to do shots. I had one, which was more than I really wanted, but it was our last day camping so… Que sera, sera!
Our camp was a few blocks away, anyway, and the evening was clear, the city beautiful. I rolled into my sleeping bag, metaphorically turned off the lights in my head, and went into a blissful Peruvian sleep, dreaming of avocados, colorful blocks, and mountain paths.
Day 6
We awoke to our last day of camping and found that Mario had baked us a cake! I have no idea how he did it. Our campsite was in a city, so it had electricity, Internet, bathrooms with running water, even, (still don’t drink it!) but the kitchen didn’t look exactly like the Ritz. He managed to cook us some very good food, so it’s best left to the professionals.
After breakfast and breaking camp, we took leave of Victor and Mario. They had been very friendly and accommodating companions, though they knew not a single word of English. We understood each other perfectly, anyway. A van brough us to a hydroelectric station nearby. It services the Cusco region. Where else would a bumpy jungle like Cusco get its electricity?
From there we hiked steadily along a river, for the hydroelectric plant, then along a railroad track, which we would take the next day to get back to Cusco. After a day of hiking in some of the best weather we had all week, we reached a ‘T’ in the road.
“Which way do we go?” Ernesto asked us. “Up?” we ventured. “Yes, that’s right!”
Of course, it was. We still had a way to go. My feet stopped registering how far. They just let the hiking polls point the way. Eventually we came to civilization. We could already see evidence of it in the form of full-sized buses roaring back and forth on the road we hiked. They were on their way to and from Machu Picchu. Well, the ancient city that is called Machu Picchu.
When Hiram Bingham first came to Peru on an expedition to Cusco, he was told by a local that there was a city in the jungle that had been undisturbed for centuries. Bingham was on an archaeological (Read: Looting) expedition on behalf of Yale University and a find like this was just what he wanted.
No-one knew what the city was originally called, but one of the mountains around it, the highest, was called Machu Picchu, ‘Old Man.’ The name stuck.
The fourteenth and last emperor of the Inkan Empire, Atahualpa, had been in a struggle and civil war with his brother, Huáscar. This weakness gave Cortez an advantage over the divided Inkas, though in a contest of guns and disease vs. the Inkan culture, as powerful as it was, the outlook was unsettlingly certain. I will leave that sad chapter to other studies.
The important part of the story is what Atahualpa did for the Inkas and for us, today. He ordered his workers to destroy all roads leading to the city now called Machu Picchu. The Spanish under Cortez never found it or looted it. Until a native Peruvian around 1902 discovered it in the underbrush of a low area between four mountains, one of which was called Machu Picchu.
While we walked, every once in a while Ernesto would stop and point out some Inka ruin half way up some vertical, tree glazed cliff. Terraces standing proud of the surrounding trees and mountain. Now they’re just showing off!
We finally reached Machu Picchu Pueblo, the town nearest to Machu Picchu. It’s built on either side of a river between two mountains, the railroad track following it along its gentlest grade.
“Our hotel is at the top of the town,” said Ernesto. Of course, it is. Why even bother telling us?
So, another walk up a paved and stair-stepped city street, alongside the river, a turn right and up a side street, past numerous storefronts, fountains, money changers, restaurants, statues of frowning Inkas, libraries, and a soccer court, we came to our hotel, The Golden Sunrise.
We had some time to clean up and rest before dinner. I had the Trout Ceviche. And then at Ernesto’s suggestion, I had a massage at Otto’s spa. It included a hot saltwater soak for the feet, and an hour’s worth of deep tissue massage. It was everything you can imagine and fit for an emperor of Cusco.
The pueblo was larger than I imagined, too. I spent some time walking around the side streets off the main thoroughfare by the river. There were more shops, a huge indoor mall by the train station, a square with more statues, civic buildings, and a church. I hardly noticed that I wasn’t puffing or stopping for rest nearly as much as I had a week before.
I checked the weather service to see what kind of weather we could expect for tomorrow. I’d been doing that since I got here and it had been inconsistent. One day it forecast, ‘Mostly Cloudy,’ for the day of our visit to Machu Picchu. Another, ‘Mostly Sunny.’ Sometimes it had rain in the weekly forecast. We are in the mountains, and it wasn’t unusual to start out clear, become overcast, start raining, then clear up again. We were constantly donning and doffing our coats and parkas.
But this time, today’s forecast for tomorrow’s weather at the top of the Inkan world, the day we would visit, the forecast had one word in it that I have never seen in a weather forecast before.
‘Delightful!’
Tomorrow, Machu Picchu!
Day 7
The bus ride to Machu Picchu took about half an hour. There
were paths alongside the road, ancient stone steps were set in the hillside
murmuring of many feet long past. Brooks trickled down and across the road. Our
bus seemed to jack knife impossibly on the switch backs. Even more unnerving
were the times we and opposing buses lurched past each other. “I’m going first,” one said. “No! I’m going first!” said the other. “I’m closing my eyes,” I thought.
At the top, well, almost the top, we got off, used the bathroom; 1 sol, please; put on bug spray and sunscreen, jungle and all, proffered our tickets at the gate, and climbed…
To Machu Picchu.
I can’t describe what it was like. The stonework. The terraces. The niches for gods and the pools filled with water to mirror the astronomically clear night sky, to be a student of the Inkan heavens! The Temple of the Sun. The astrological stones indicating important parts of the sky for ritual and planting instructions. The brooding protector mountains surrounding the proud city.
Machu Picchu was an administrative city and also a holy city. The capital of the Inkan empire was Cusco, but the royalty and aristocracy also lived here at times. You could tell who lived where by the quality of the masonry. Rank has its privileges.
The immensity is what took me in. What must it have looked like in Atahualpa’s day? Or in Hiram Bingham’s day, when the entire city had been reclaimed by the jungle and then revealed, machete swing by machete swing? The city today was meticulously clean, the grass cut and the stones protected from thousands of feet.
I had paid for an extra side trip up Huayna Picchu, one of the mountains surrounding Machu Picchu. Huayna Picchu is ‘Young Man,’ in contrast with Machu Picchu, ‘Old Man.’ The brochure said this afforded a breathtaking view of the city. It also said it was a difficult climb of about 1 hour with ladders and cables near the top.
Luckily, there was another, smaller mountain next to it with equally stunning views. Huchuy Picchu (‘Little Mountain.’) I opted to climb the Bunny Slope Mountain instead of risking the Death Mountain next door. Ernesto accompanied me while the youngsters, Cortney and Jeff, tackled Young Mountain. It seemed appropriate.
It was all I could want. The weather was truly delightful. The scenery unbelievable. The mountains grand.
After Machu Picchu we took a bus back to Machu Picchu
Pueblo, also known as Aguas Calientes, ‘Hot Water.’ Ernesto and I arrived
earlier than the others since they had opted to climb Huayna Picchu. I had time
to clean up, check my luggage at the hotel with instructions to deliver it to
the train station by 4:00 O’clock, and do some more leisurely hiking up and
down the streets of the pueblo. I was getting, if not actually ‘good,’ then
‘better’ at this. And I didn’t even need any supplemental oxygen during the trip.
After dinner we took our train to a town about an hour outside of Cusco. There a car met us and brought us back to our hotel in town. I took leave of Cortney and Jeff. Ernesto would meet me the following morning, since my flight was not until about 8:30 the following night and he wanted to take me around Cusco for one last visit.
I can only say, visit Machu Picchu. Meet the exceptional people of Peru. Take some time. Walk. Get out of breath. Stop. Drink some coca tea. Take in the grandeur.
You’ll be glad you did.
My flight was not until 8:30 that night, so I had all day until my ride met me in the hotel lobby at 6:30. Ernesto met me in the morning and we did a walking tour around Cusco. He brought me to a huge indoor market, a place where the locals go. This was the kind of place with a meat market, unrefrigerated, where they sold cuts of meat, whole heads, and sausages. There was a bread section, food stalls where local workers stopped for lunch, plus lots of touristy items. It had it all.
He pointed out a museum I could visit, the tickets he gave us a week earlier were still good and I hadn’t visited the history museum yet.
After a nice time, I bought both of us coffee and cake at a little shop, along with a few cheap last minute geegaws that I subsequently can’t find. I assume I left them on the plane or somewhere, though I can’t image where. I like to get at least one tacky item, usually a refrigerator magnet I can look at. Well, at least it wasn’t expensive.
I took my leave of Ernesto, thanking him for his truly inspiring tour of Peru’s ancient capital, Cusco and its magic city, Machu Picchu.
After spending my last few hours taking pictures and walking around Cusco-I saw a nice parade of school kids in Inca costumes a few blocks from my hotel-I headed back to await my ride to the airport.
I got my luggage, poured myself a cup of coca tea, and started reorganizing my bags. According to my step tracker I have walked 65 miles since I got here. Some of them were even horizontal. Not bad. Not bad at all.
Soon the receptionist came up to me. “Djonathan Luks?” she said. “Yes?” “Your ride to the airport is here.” “Oh, so soon? I wasn’t expecting him yet.”
I sipped a bit more tea, left the rest, and gathered up my bags, which were mostly organized. I also had the duffle bag and hiking polls belonging to Inkayni Tours to leave with the driver.
The drive to the airport was even more manic than usual. I swear one intersection had all of the traffic switching sides. So I guess it was alright. That’s symmetry.
Cusco airport is small, there were only four gates that I could see, and I doubt there were any other concourses. Check-in was quick. I got boarding passes for all three legs. I had made reservations for the night at a hotel directly across from the airport called Costa del Sol Wyndham in Lima and was looking forward to some sleep and a shower before the long flight to Atlanta. My flight was at 8:40PM arriving at Lima around 10:00 with the connecting flight to Atlanta at 9:00AM the next morning.
The flight was quick, the hotel welcome, and the air on the street was a thick syrup. I was starting to ‘get acclimated.’
After breakfast at around 6:00, I finished packing. I jammed my coat into my check-in luggage, donned my day pack, and checked out of the hotel. I snaked my way around drop off traffic between the hotel and the airport and wormed my way into the lobby, checked in and dropped off my luggage.
And so began the running of the security checks.
Day 9
The trip is over. Well, it’s never really over. There’s the getting to home and the washing of laundry and the putting away of stuff and the finding of places for souvenirs bought on the streets of a strange land, and the giving of gifts, and the telling of stories…
And where shall I go next?
