Machu Pichu, 2010

Well it is done. Did it. Finished. Trekked four days time on the Inca Trail, finishing at Machu Pichu. The last days of Peru 2010 disappear this week and I return to the states.

This last memory is anticpated to be of Machu Pichu and one most favorable to last until dementia sets in (hopefully not). Four days of changing micro climates as our small group of seven pasenjeros, nine porters, one cook and three guides, ascended and descended on original Inca stone steps. Building codes certainly have changed in the last 700 years. The riser height on these steps, certainly exceeds current standards. Since the Incas were fairly short they must have had a vertical leap worthy of Olympic medal to get up these steps. The depth of these steps seldom accomodated my small shoes size either. Still, the construction of this trail has withstood earthquake, volcanic eruption, heavy jungle rains, and dense jungle overgrowth and there are no signs of gaps, separation, looseness or asphalt coating to cover up cracks. Amazing skill and durability.

These trails extend from Chili, through Peru, Ecuador, into Columbia and across to Bolivia and Brazil. Is it possible there was an Andean version of Route 66 played on pipe and drum? Our trail began about an hour away from Cusco. First day was simple, smooth, straight. Not much gain in altituded and just a hint of the vegetative green that awaited patiently for our footsteps.

Then that second day shook hard any confidence of physical strength or stamina. It was a day almost entirely uphill. Add to the leg exercises to lift body weight, step by step, the cruelty of hight altitude location, forced frequent stops. Counting steps was senseless. Numbers would have to be enumerated with scientific notation, like counting distances between stars. Listening to the huffs, puffs and wheezing of fellow travelers was smothered by one’s own gutteral expressions of agony.
And yet there was the reward of amazing scenery. Every value of green possible was seen. Bromelias, orchids mixed with cactus and fern. There was the occassional parrot, green of course, as well as the picaflor (hummingbird). I’m trying to think of a way to describe these mountains, unsuccessfully. Despite the height of these mountains, there are green from top to bottom, no evidence of treeline was displayed below rocky precipice. In the distance beyond could be seen snowcaps. But, the immediate Amus (Incann reference to sacred mountains) were different. It seemed each mountain stood separate, rising independently from deep valley floor to the heights of condors in flight. None seemed connected to the mountains next. It was as if marbles were placed in a flat-bottomed bowl and grew into these beautiful shapes.

The third day was like Alice in Wonderland walking through the mirror. Whereas the previous day was uphill, this day was almost all down. Every point of contact between the adjoining bones of hip, leg and foot was blasted with impact, as a locomotive reverses itself to connect the loaded freight cars in the railyard. Thankfully I am not the size of a profootball lineman.

Between the steps and the natural beauty around was a frequent tease of Incan ruins along the way. Walls, temples, fortress lookouts, and terraces were confronted, observed, touched, explained, mystified, appraised and appreciated. A fear arose the Machu Pichu might be anticlimatic. How could it be possible that one more Incan construction could surpass the others experienced these two months in Peru?
But, those fears were silly. We arose before four AM on the fourth day so as to allow the porters to feed us, clean up, break camp and carry their, or our, burdens back and return to their homes, most likely in surrounding pueblos, and tend to other duties of their lives, almost assuredly in a field.

So, we readied and marched. A short walk, only two hours, and then we went through a large stone entrance and were immediately graced with an overlook of the city below. If I had not had a degree of previous knowledge I cannot imagine how great that initial impact would have been. It was like walking through a dark tunnel, then emerging to see a golden city below. It spread over layers of the mountain side, with taller sister peaks lifting their heads to shelter, hide and protect, if necessary.

Our guide took us through much, though not all, of the individual structures. Storage units, housing for the common Inca, the sacerdotes, the royalty (who had indoor plumbing). Then there were the terraces weaving everywhere, rooms for atronomical observation, the Temple of the Sun, plazas. Fountains for purification, canals carrying water from subterranean sources. There were inserts in the walls for objects of worship and respect, and various rock sculptures to mimic the sacred mountains nearby. There was even a sound room to detect and test the sounds of nature and musical instruments. Each structure is special and was constructed with a specific objective in mind, and size and shape of construction was modified to that need.

The place certainly had a sacred mystical purpose. Likely guidance and confirmation was sought from dieties, from Pachamama (mother earth), the spiritual levels of heaven, earth and the underworld, of future, present and past time, all represented by the condor, puma and snake. Occassionally as one walked among these amazing ruins you would find some in their cross-legged yoga pose, in their meditative position, obviously trying to connect to that source of energy and strength felt by the Incas centuries ago.

Once we had free time to wander about I found a shady wall and tried in my own way to retrieve some of that intangible force. I looked across the expance of stone and well-maintained green space. I watched hundreds of tourists as they moved through the labyrinth of walls, in a controlled clockwise direction. I tried to imagine what the scene might have been 500 years ago. Was it noisy, quiet, fast, slow, crowded or not? With all the noise it was near impossible. There was the normal drone amongst the tourists. There was the spanish accented explanation from the many guides to their curious tourist groups. Alas, there was also the frequent shout from a separated youth as they yelled across the walls and compounds to friends, breaking any possibility of tranquility. And, then there was the whistle from the park security waving stray tourists off of manicured lawns, as a pool lifeguard would warn kids in the shallow end to stop their unacceptable behavior.

Despite it all, there was still enough space to center oneself. Looking beyond this mountain top to others beyond, to the valleys and river below, I could still drift away, not as easily as the swifts that nest in the walls, but enough to have a wonderful sensation – a sensation of time and place I wish I could repeat on a routine basis.

But, I had a schedule to keep. My train and bus back to Cusco had schedules to keep. So, I laid my walking stick (broom handle) against one wall, and left this wonder. I am glad I saved this for last.

So, now shortly to return and renewed. I again carry memories and maybe some change of character and skill. Gracias por todo Peru!

I walk the maze of moments
But everywhere I turn to
Begins a new beginning
But never finds a finish
I walk to the horizon
And then I find another
It all seems so surprising
And then I find that I know.

You go there you’re gone forever
I go there I’ll lose my way
We stay here we’re not together
Anywhere is.

To leave the thread of all time
And let it make a dark line
In hopes that I can still find
The way back to the moment
I took the turn and turned to
Begin a new beginning
Still lookig for the answer
I cannot find the finish
Its either this or that way
It should be one direction
It might be on reflection
The turn that I have taken
The turn that I was making
I might be just beginning
I might be near the end.
(Enya)

Colca Canyon, 2010

Un beun viaje – a good trip. This weekend had a three day expresso, 10-hours distant from Cusco via bus. First day was in Arequipa, second largest city in Peru. The central part I visited, of course, had its Plaza de Armas, as all do. And, yes, the large catholic cathedral overlooke he central fountain, gardens, pathways and bench.
I was there May Day and there were the marches, bands, speeches. There was even a small communist rally, but no images of Che were visible. After a walk around I toured the Monasteria de Santa Catalina. Dating back to the sixteenth century it once housed 450 people. It now has 30 nuns in residencia. Due to money needs it has recently been partially opened to tourism. The nuns resided in a part sheltered from tourist chatter, and fotos, including the “here I am at the fountain”,”here I am at the orange trees”.

The area is surrounded by volcanoes, three visible from my hotal window, none active at the moment. In addition, the area suffers from seismic activity. So, between the volcanoes and earthquakes, all city structures have suffered, including the monastery. The city itself is referred to as the “white city”, due to the fallen ash as well as use of volcanic rock for construction.

Inside as expected are small sized rooms, natural light, wood fired stoves, without chimney, thus the blackened ceilings. Gas has only recently been added for cooking. As for running water, I saw no evidence of it. Minimal furniture, a wood framed bed, thin mattress (no adjustable settings), simple chair, maybe a small desk, plus no ordainments except a cross and maybe an image of Jesus or the Virgen Mary.

But, the convent was, and is, a small city. I did not count the number of peaceful pation courtyards, with religious paintings “frescoed” on the walls of the patio corridors. There are several streets, rock-laid, crisscrossing through this pueblo of faith, sacrifice, and total devotion.

So many points of interest. The canal system that carries water throughtout. The outdoor lavanderia. The orange trees, including one that has yet to bear fruit. But, when it does it is expected to coincide with several predictions made by a former sister, now sainted due to other predictions which have been verified as to being fulfilled. And, in this place, is peace. Despite the solitude and separation, the architecture and construction, art, and gardens all bring focus to the purpose of the place. Sitting on any of the walls or benches in the complex, and just sitting in contemplation, brought as reapid a meditative calm as any I have had in the mountains.

Next day was to a pueblo Chivay where the night was spent before entry into the Colca Valley. The valley has been occupied for 2,000 years, preInca, who built these amazing terraced fields to catch snow melt from the surrounding volcanoes. Still in use, the patchwork of yellows, greens and sienas indicates presence of quinua, barley and maize. Papas were harvested last week. They lay below the mountains around and the Colca River runs by on its way to the depths of Colca Canyon, some say the deepest canyon in the world.

Above the Colca Canyon is a lookout, a mirador. Intended less for viewing the canyon, but more for sighting of the Andean Condor, standing four feet tall, with a wing span of ten feet. Shortly after arrival on this beautiful sunny and clear day was their appearance. Eventually ten in total were seen, adults and juveniles. They showed no fear, nor apparently no taste, for the spectators scattered on the rocks with their cameras. Easily playing with the thermals rising from the canyon below, the drifted above our heads and then away and then returned. The adults with rings of white were especially impressive. Aiming a camera at these creatures as they soared by required more skill and lens power than I have. Still, watching them was as if I were in a scene in one of those Lost World pictures, where prehistoric size was no surprise. It was well worth the time spent in a tour van.

Only one more planned experience. In two days I start hiking to Machu Pichu, a four-day hike in the mountains. And then back to the states.