Maritza Manani Manani peered at us from behind her black veil, as we were introduced as her adopted family for the night. We had just climbed up the steep hill from the boat which had transported to the heart of Lake Titicaca in Bolivia and the Island of  Amantaní. 

        We were to enter for a day and night the community of

Choosing our family on San Cayuni

             We had avoided true altitude sickness by making our way to this altitude of 12,000 feet in stages, but that did not keep our lungs from protesting for lack of oxygen,  and we had already had to take several breaks along the initial trail.

             Maritza was dressed in all the finery of her tribe, with an embroidered shirt of many colors, wide skirts of flaming red, and the black shawl with which she covered half of her face, thus indicating that she was single and of marrying age.  The eight communities which make up this island are of pre-Inca origin, and we were to learn that they were an intact culture of their own, and that aside from leaving to work in the nearby textile factories of Juliaca, the inhabitants did not approve of marriage outside the island. They were also a communal system, with each community around the island growing different crops, depending on their location, and then sharing the produce equally amongst theemselves.

Tilling the soil

With Maritza as our guide, we breathlessly worked our way past the thousands of terraces created over the centuries by simple hand labor, and which at this time of the year seemed to hold only one crop, with which we were not familiar. This gave us the opportunity to ask her to stop and explain, while we fought for our breath once again. While her native tongue was Quechua, she and her family were fluent in Spanish as well.  The crop was oka, a tuberous plant grown in rows of elevated soil perpendicular to the slope, which allowed for the drainage of rainfall toward the retaining wall of the terraced patch. No single plot of land was bigger than a few hundred square feet, the size depending of the slope of the land, and the number of rocks which had had to be removed to produce the tillable soil numbered in the thousands per plot, and created the patchwork of terraces visible in every direction.

             We had already learned of the sun’s intensity at this elevation, and were prepared with sunblock and hats. The temperatures at this time of year were mild, luring us into taking off protective clothing, and paying the price. Always look at the locals. Their only exposure was of the face, and they were all distinguished by dark patches on their high cheekbones, which were leathery and dry, much darker than even the rest of their skin, which was extremely brown. Sparkling eyes and a cheerful smiles were in contrast to the harsh conditions that these people had endured. We were here in the late summer of the Southern Hemisphere, yet the temperatures rarely rose above 60 F and the nights were down into the 40’s. The difference between sun and shade was amazing, as we changed layers with each passing cloud, much to the amusement of our guides.

             After a few stops to gain a few hundred more 

The Antamani Hilton

feet we reached our host home, a compound of stacked rock walls and living areas of adobe covered with mud, and roofs of eucalyptus timbers and sheet metal. The metal has replaced the thatched roofs created from the hectareas of water reeds that ring the shallows of Lake Titicaca. We had passed this renewable resource in our embarkation from Puno, Peru, and we had stopped for a short visit on floating islands made of these same reeds. Here lived the people who had inhabited the lake for centuries, probably starting out with temporary floating structures during times of reed harvest to provide the thatch for those living on islands and communities around the lake. It is no stretch of the imagination to envision the day that someone decided that it was more convenient to stay upon the lake, bring along the family to fish and cook, and provide permanent centers for the harvesting of the reeds. On the islands everything is made of 

Reed boat near floating islands	Boat detail

reed, from the multiple layers of these hollow grasses that are laid in perpendicular directions to provide a stable base, to the huts of reed walls, and reed roofs, including special areas for fires and cooking. Even the boats for travel and transport of the reed material itself are made from tightly knit reed boats, of unique shape and artistic designs. Thor Hyerdahl of Kon Tiki fame, in which he sailed a papyrus ship to duplicate the legendary journey of Egyptians across the Atlantic millennia ago, also built a boat of these very reeds, a copy of which still sails upon Lake Titicaca. Hyerdahl sailed across the South Pacific, proving that the Bering Land bridge might not be the only origin of the native peoples of the Americas.

                 The only remains of the reed structure in our family compound was incorporated as the base of our bed, which ranked very low on the comfort scale. 

Reed mattress

The level of discomfort during the night was compounded by the 50 pound blanket made of woven wool or alpaca, which made movement during the night an exercise in skill and strength.

                At the house we met the abuelitos (grandparents), Bernabe and Gedarda, our affable hosts, and Maritza’s sisters Elizabeth and Lucinta. Mona brought out the gifts of candy and hand puppets, which were a big hit, and we were presented with a hand-knit alpaca wool hat, which is in the classic Peruvian style and will serve well in the cold mornings of Spring and Fall in the Methow valley. 

We had been warned that the culinary talent of the island people was limited by what they could grow, so we were not surprised to receive our first meal of a bowl of potato, carrot, and quinwa soup. Quinwa is a native grain that is similar to the amaranth that is sometimes grown in the northern US. The combination provides a filling mixture of starch and protein, and was actually quite good. The second course featured the staple of the altiplano (the high Andean plain surrounded by 16,000 ft peaks) - French Fries, combined with white rice, oka, and huge lima beans. And as usual we were served “mate de coca”, a tea made from the coca leaf, which has been a staple of these regions forever, and, while it is the source of cocaine, does not produce the same effect in tea form, or even as a chewed leaf, which all the local people use generously and which has a mild narcotic effect, especially when chewed with a catalyst made of lime and wood ashes, which are sold separately on every street corner where the bags of coca leaves are purchased. All of the guidebooks we read suggested the use of the leaf as an antidote to altitude sickness, which we were apt to suffer from moving to such a high place so quickly. The chewing was tried by everyone on the trip, some more effectively than others, and all gave up the “habit” without much coaxing by the end of the trip. The “chew” was green, the catalyst was black, and the combination did not either taste good or look good. The tea, on the other hand, was quite pleasant, and since none of us suffered badly for the altitude sickness, which can put people in bed, we cannot scientifically rate the chew, the tea, or a placebo (which no one took) as the best preventative. 

After dinner, Lucita, the youngest of the family, no more than 6, dressed in her finery, led us on an expedition to the summit of the island, just above 4000 meters, the highest point we would reach on our entire trip. Climbing this extra distance of 1000 feet at sea level would not present any of us with much anxiety. But at this altitude, it was stop and go, huff and puff, and an exercise in lung inflation that is hard to describe. After a hundred steps of so, the shortness of breath is amazing, then comes the dizziness, and one MUST stop and recover. All except Lucita, who found our agony amusing and annoying at the same time. But each stop

Amantani Island terraces and Lake Titicaca

provided a new vista of the lake and the incredible terraces that covered every inch of the island that is not solid rock. At the summit we found a pre-Inca temple, which is used to this day for special ceremonies, especially the feast of the winter solstice, when the sun drops to its lowest point in the sky, and which event was always noted by the ancients as the day that the Gods spared the earth from eternal night for one more year. As in many places the entrance to the temple, which was very crude stacked rockwork, faced in the exact direction that the sun would set on that dreaded day. On that night the shamans would circle the outside of the temple three times, enter through the doorway, and then build an altar of llama wool, grains and other offerings, which would then be covered with llama dung, the only burnable item on the entire island, and the mound would be lit as a sacrifice to the Gods in anticipation of another year of light and crops, health and prosperity. 

We returned to our hut to find supper ready, with the only variation being a bowl of oka and rice replacing the French Fries, but with a few whole potatoes, just in case. The oka, which looks a bit like a long, narrow radish, and tastes raw like a turnip, came out being little different than a potato upon cooking. After the meal and by candlelight, the family brought out our apparel for the evening, dressing Mona in an embroidered top and several dresses, which were held in place by a long sash tied quite securely about the waist. The men, fortunately, had but to don a heavy wool poncho and a traditional hat, which itched around the ears. The skies had darkened as we walked by flashlight to the central meeting hut. The island has a diesel generator for lights, but the economy of keeping it running did not match the tourism income, and it had not been turned on for several months.

Once at the meeting hut, a table of beer was laid out, the flutes and mandarins were brought forth, and the party was on. It must have been the custom for the girls to ask the men to dance, and we tourists, who numbered about twenty, were soon introduced to the local jig, which could be done in pairs or in a large circle, 

Dressed for the Dance	Learning the steps with Grandpa	Maritza and Mona

and while it did not require any prescribed or rhythmic steps, was obviously solely intended to squelch the last bit of breath from those unaccustomed. Each dance would last until at least half of us lowlanders were forced to surrender, sit down and drink some more beer. The lighting for the entire 30 meter by 10 meter structure was provided by two gas lanterns, which barely allowed one to see the next dancer, much less prepare for a twirl or a whip around a corner. Somewhere around the time we were all prepared to try to make our way home, the wind, the rain, and the lightning put a damper on thoughts of exit, as the roofing howled and the wind drove the rain through the various cracks in the walls. So we gave in and danced some more, the locals showing a bit of mercy by trying to actually teach us some moves. We had a few more beers and waited out the storm. Each group greedily kept track of their own family members, as we knew quite well we would never find our way to our “comfortable” beds without a guide.

  It was a night worth forgetting for sleep. Brought back memories of younger days sleeping on the ground. It seemed as if every few moments one of us would awake with a new pain or discomfort, and changing position meant waking up the other half, realigning ourselves and dozing off for a few more hours, or minutes – who knows? The beer drunk during the dance had to be eliminated several times during the night, with no flashlight, pouring down cold rain, and a precarious ladder to maneuver. Not a chance – we peed from under our plastic ponchos into the night. At some ungodly hour came the knock of our hosts to tell us that the boat would be leaving and we had better get ready. We were glad that the night was over, yet lacking any real rest.

Breakfast was fried potatoes once again, this time topped by one hard boiled egg. It seems that the family chicken, yes THE family chicken, was required to provide the only variation in our menu. Obviously the Manani family was not prepared for more than a few guests a week. We were almost embarrassed to be watched eating this precious commodity – but we were too drowsy to complain much.

  The family bid us farewell, and Maritza led us back down to the dock where most of the contingent was already sprawled out on various parts of the boat deck, trying to make up for lost sleep.

 In retrospect, the visit was even more amazing, and the hardships forgotten, as we had been swept back in time to a place where the land was tilled without even the use of animals and there were no vehicles of any kind, not even a wheelbarrow.

  On the return trip to Puno, we stopped at another island, Tekila, a bit more developed, set up a little better for tourism, more comfortable, but a lot less charming.

  From Puno we bussed across the Peru/Bolivia border to the city of Copacabana, where we were to spend two nights. Our feckless guide had once again opted for the zero star accommodations, and the crew was ready for a full revolt. 

Crossing into Bolivia - on to Copacabana

Especially Dee and Roy, as Dee was down with symptoms of altitude sickness, dysentery, the flu, or perhaps a combination of the above. At the “hotel”, the proprietor was extremely surprised to see us, with remodeling under way (not the first time this was to plague our accommodations), and an appointment somewhere else. He was actually quite happy when we told him that we were off to look for another hotel. Having suffered through this process on previous days, Mona and I had already scouted out a sweet looking hotel just a few blocks away, where the beds were matrimonial (more on this later), and the balconies looked out over Lake Titicaca, there was an outside dining patio, and it still only cost us $9US per night. Tells you a bit about where we had been staying.

Sacrificial stone on Island of the Sun	View of Island of the Moon in distance

The next day, we cruised to the Island of the Sun, where the more adventuresome of our group, Dave, Min, and Egan chose to do the trek across the island from the legendary birthplace of the Incas to the highest point on the island and down the other side. The boat would take the rest of the group – I’ll introduce them later – and head for the Island of the Moon and then return to pick us up. Dave is a 50something old hippy, who works for the railroad, drinks a lot of beer (which he packed on this journey), is a rockhound by disposition, and was an excellent traveling companion. Egan was a harmonica player – need I say more. He took off across the mountain, and we did not see him again until the end of the day, although we did glimpse his solitary figure on a few distant bends in the trail. “Trail” is a bit generous, as the goats who laid it out had no compunction whatsoever in wandering up and down the mountain at odd locations. Fortunately, the terrain was fairly self evident, since the island had only one mountain ridge and we had only one direction to go. Our other companion turned out to be Shana, a girl from Australia, who was a dedicated traveler, in her late 20’s, and Amazonian in proportions. But she provided a pleasant counterpoint to Dave’s chatter, not to mention being a hell of a lot better looking. (Sorry, Dave!).

  There really was not much to see, if you were not happy to look out across the terraced slopes to the bluer than blue lake, which stretched before us in every direction. We were able to follow the journey of the boat, which had taken the others, on its course to the Island of the Moon, and then time our descent to meet our fellow travelers at the bottom of the “500 steps”, which we actually missed, and wandered down to the dock by a different route.

  This end of the island was obviously the more traveled as there were small stands set up, and a lady had set up a deep-fryer and was cranking out the potatoes, which are the staple of every meal. I grabbed a bag and a soda and sat down to rest my weary legs, watching the various locals and travelers interact. A little boy, no more than 5 years old,  had a bag of the fries bought for him by one of the tourists,  and started heading back toward town, when he stumbled and dropped the entire contents on the gravel path. I watched as the poor kid just stood there and stared down at his lost treasure, as everyone else paid little attention. I became fascinated with his composure, the look of almost tears, the glance this way and that, obviously embarrassed to have lost his prize. Finally I couldn’t stand it, and I walked over and bought another bag, went to the waif and offered it to him. His expression did not change. He did not take the bag, but continued, as if some trance to look down, then up, then one way, then the other. Now it was getting weird. I grabbed his hand and pulled him off to the side, and sat down in front of him. I put the fries in his hand, and told him that everything was fine, and that he should go ahead and eat them. No way. Wherever he had gone, he was not coming back, and now I was starting to attract the attention of other people. So I left him standing there, went over to the fry lady and asked where the child lived. She pointed down the beach, and I went over to the house, and explained the predicament. Mom was there, but she was too busy to give this a high priority, so she sent older brother back with me. The kid was still there, looking down at the bag of fries, then up, left, right, his feet glued to the exact spot as if to move would be some grievous disgrace. His brother grabbed the fries, tucked the boy under his arm and wandered home. I don’t know if I had done good or bad, but the boat was ready to leave, and we bid farewell to this the highest navigable lake in the world, and headed back to Copacabana, and back to Puno the next day.

 Dave, who is into trying “stuff”, going native - whatever, was on a quest for “Chuchuwase”, which is supposed to be just like it sounds, an aphrodisiacal concoction made from a bark of a tree from the Amazon, and whose potency is released by soaking it in rum for a few days and drinking the rum. Skeptic that I am, I am always up for a good hunt, and Puno supposedly had an incredible market, which we were told to avoid at all costs, due to the prevalence of thieves. A challenge, I’d say! So we put away our valuables, stuffed a few Soles into our pockets, and Dave, Mona and I were off on our quest. We found the market and one lady selling a few concoctions in the closer market that we could walk to, but no Chuchuwase. But the lady told us of the “real” place where the “brujas” or witches, hang out, which we would have to reach by taxi. We were hoping to take one of the quaint Trici-Taxis that were everywhere, but couldn't fit the three of us in, so the lady hailed us a cab and told the driver where to take us.

Trici-Taxi in Puno

A word about the "witches" These brujas are anybody who is a natural healer, and not some warty-nosed, pointy-hatted, crusty old lady.  Well, at least that was what we thought. The taxi dropped us off at a market of unbelievable proportions, extending blocks in every direction, but with a specialized trade in used, and I mean used, everything. Several of the areas were filled with the insides of electronic devices, boards from who knows what VCR, all covered in layers of dust and grime. A bargain, I am sure, if you knew what to look for. We kept walking and asking for the brujas, and kept getting the same pointing of direction, so we continued, until, guess what, we found the warty-nosed, OK no pointy hat, but UUUUUgly bruja, sitting in front of a whole pile of dead things. We asked what they were. Alpaca fetuses, dried in all their slimy gore, and – no we didn’t ask what they were to be used for. Fetuses, fertility, miscarriage, abortion – no sir, we did not want to know. We inquired  for Chuchuwase, and were told by the bruja to go to the Pharmacy. What a letdown! Go all the way to the bleakest market in Peru, risk our lives and our souls talking to ladies with dead fetuses for sale, and we get sent to Walgreens. And they had it, too!

  We smuggled it back with us, but I checked on the internet and the medicinal uses are the usual; stomach cramps, headaches, PMS, and a quick note about how early explorers were sucked in to the aphrodisiac thing, got drunk from the rum content, and were mugged by the natives. Nothing changes over the years, only now they take the money first.

  The markets which we visited in the countryside were frequented by the traditionally dressed Andean natives, and the costumes alone were usually worth the visit, as the mountain people brought in their crafts to sell and return with necessary staples for their difficult existence.

Puno was our LAST stop in the mountains before heading back to Lima. Lest the reader thinks that something is missing from this trip, the writer has taken the liberty of giving the sequence as it SHOULD HAVE BEEN, and not as it was. It became readily apparent that the scheduling of the excursion was based a lot less on the logical progression of history, than the appearance of various of the guide’s girlfriends along the route. The excuse was the altitude thing, but we are not convinced. The first day in Lima is, of course, a must, as it is the international airport. But the next day of wandering around the square was less than spectacular, even though I suppose Mona and I are jaded, spending so much time in Colonial Guadalajara that most Spanish period buildings and pretentious cathedrals are beginning to take their toll on our enthusiasm for architectural excursions. What we should have done in Lima the first day, instead of the last, was to go to the Museum, where we would have been able to see the progression in the Inca culture, and then go to the source, Lake Titicaca, and weave through the time-line of the people, as they progressed in their own style.  So this is the way I take you, and we would in this ideal trip, now be headed down to Cusco, rather than Lima.

The Central Square of Cusco	The most famous Inca rockwork

Cusco was a pleasant, lively city, now well adapted to the hordes of tourists that flock there during the high period of northern summer. Considering the weather we had, this does not seem like such a good idea, as that is the Peruvian winter, and though the market may be good for all the alpaca sweaters, gloves, hats, and socks, we from the tropics had enough of a chill in this, the end of their summer. At 8000-12000 feet, I guess it never really gets warm anyway, and we were flirting with the rainy season in Feb-Mar, but were lucky with the weather, and had no rainouts, and only a few wet days.

  Cusco, was the center of the Inca empire, and both in the city and around it are various sites of incredible rockwork. A large part of the town is built upon Inca foundations, so almost on every street are buildings, which sit upon the stone footings of Inca structures, with stonework that is hard to imagine. Our first night in Cusco, we wandered up the street to the most famous, the stone some 8 feet across, of 13 different faces, each one abutting another stone, with absolutely no separation, no grout, no anything. It would be impossible to put a razor blade between any of the stones. How? No one really knows the techniques they used. I have fitted wooden logs together with a chain-saw. And I have tried my hand at stonework. Impressed does not come close. And not just once, but everywhere you looked.

  Around the city were other ruins like Sexy Woman, which is a way of remembering the name Sacsayhuaman. Here, outside the city, the foundations are in their natural state, not used by later generations to build upon, but the feeling is the same. How?

  Our trusted guide had promised that Peru’s cuisine was superior to any, and we were very disappointed. A lot of chopped pork, overcooked trout, and always potatoes. After a few days, we were looking to experiment, and as we got away from the Peru on $5 a day locations, we did find better fare, and a lot more fun. Actually one of the best surprises was the pizza, prepared on a thin crust, and seasoned in a variety of ways that were unfamiliar, but very tasty.

  A couple of Cusco Stories:

  THE BAND – we had taken everybody else to see the stone of 13 angles, and were looking for an evening meal when we were attracted to an out of the way place by  live music pouring through the door. Andean music is a lively blend of wooden flutes, guitar, mandolin, and vocals made famous by Paul Simon’s “El Condor Pasa”, which it would be nice if everybody forgot, because it is on everybody’s song list, and gets boring. The place with the band was packed, so we knew we were in the right place, and although the food was forgettable, the quartet of mandolin, flute, guitar, and drum were a treat. After their first set, they came by with a CD, and not having spent anything much yet, Mona asked how much. Now everybody remembers the guy saying 4 Soles, but maybe we had had a few extra pisco sours, and Mona heard 40 Soles. She looked over at Dee with a shrug, and Dee told her that she had bought a CD for 35 the other day, so what the heck, 40 was OK. But Egan and Carol Ann wanted 2, and here was the problem. The tipsy gringos were willing to pay 40 Soles ($13US) for the CD’s, but the band only had the one. A quick conference, and the band lost its lead singer and guitarist, who zipped out the door. Actually, the three who were left did an admirable job, and only had to be warned off “El Condor Pasa” two times during the meal. But having finished desert, we were getting tired and we got up and bought the one CD, and headed back down the street. We had not quite reached the main street of Cusco, when the guitar player, completely out of breath, bounded into view from behind us, flashing two more CD’s, which were purchased by Carol Ann. As we were about to turn the corner we looked back to see the quartet dancing in the street.

  The next day Mona ran across the same group having their shoes shined in the main square, having made an incredible profit, ten-fold the usual. We did not feel taken in any way, and everybody was happy with the outcome. The CD, which it turns out is a pirated copy of someone else’s music, is actually quite good. and authentic, although it could do without the “El Condor Pasa” track.

 CHOCOLATE CAKE

  The next night in Cusco, our guide, Randy, who is notoriously a tightwad, as well as a know-it-all and know-everybody, told us that there was a “semi-famous” R&B singer in town that night and that he was going to go to the concert, and then had been invited to a party afterwards at a great hangout near the town center. Mona spent the day relaxing and wandering around the interesting shops. She was especially interested in bringing back some items she needed for jewelry making and repair. There was a tour scheduled for some of the surrounding ruins, but rather than go on the Bus, I grabbed a taxi, and had him drive me to Sachsahuaman, where I spent an hour or so wandering alone amongst the rockwork, and then walking down back into town. It was a much better experience than being herded about a variety of similar ruins, listening to the made-up stories of a guide. Having read up on the history of the Incas, it was obvious  that very little was known, and the historical facts were left up to each guide’s imagination. I was quite capable of trying to make up the facts for myself, conceptualizing hundreds of the tiny Incas using ropes, and rollers, pulleys and levers, manipulating the huge rocks into place, as other hundreds of craftsmen used stone chisels to meticulously shape each bevel. As dusk approached, I wandered down through winding streets and alleyways back to the town center, and met the rest of the group.

  Randy, had had no intention of actually going INTO the concert, but was going to stand outside the church where it was being held, and listen through the closed door. As this did not appeal to some of us, we told him we would meet him at the bar after the party, and join the festivities there. Together with Carol Ann, Egan, and Dave, we found a nice restaurant and enjoyed the evening, and at the appointed hour wandered over to the small bar, where we found ourselves the only clientele. We ordered Irish coffee and asked to see the dessert menu. Lots of things looked good, and after quite a bit of deliberation, we decided on several items. At this point the waiter told us that he was sorry, but they were out of desserts. Great! We had built ourselves up into a sweet anticipation, and were determined not to be disappointed. So Egan and I went out into the street looking for a take-out bakery. Of course, at this time of night, everything was closed but restaurants, so we picked out an Italian place, wandered in and asked for the dessert menu. One of the items was an interesting chocolate cake, and we asked for 5 pieces to take out. Obviously, this was not a normal request, and after considerable deliberation, the owner came out and asked us to have a seat while they prepared it. There was a TV and a soccer game going on, and as both Egan and I had been soccer coaches, we spent ten minutes discussing experiences and strategies. But no cake. Finally, I asked the waiter, who gave me the “just a minute” hand signal. In just a minute he came back with a couple of glasses of wine, “on the house”, and said it would be “just a minute”. After the game was over, and we were about to get in trouble with our ditched wives, a fellow comes running into the store with a box. Walking over to where the discussion was taking place it became obvious that they had also sent out for a cake. Now they were discussing how to cut it up, the normal cake cutter having left for the night. Actually, everyone had left for the night. I asked for a price for our five pieces - $75 Soles. A bit steep. How much for the entire cake, as is, no cutting, no mess - $75 Soles. Great!, we grabbed the box and were back at the bar in a flash, where they had not quite decided to send out a search party, but had had a couple more drinks. Still no Randy – no entourage of our semi-famous R&B singer.

The bartender was impressed with the cake, and provided the cutting services, the plates, etc., as we ordered another coffee and enjoyed ourselves. Shortly thereafter, people began to file in, together with a lady dressed to the nines, who looked like the posters about town. Randy still had not made an appearance, and as the bar filled up we were getting ready to head split and head for our rooms, when Randy wandered in the door, surprised to see us sitting in the best seats in the house, two comfortable couches with a coffee table, and just finishing up our cake and drinks. He said the concert had been great, and as there had not been very many people leaning against the church door, he felt he had great seats. Read this as “free” seats, upon which Randy places a great deal of value. He also said that the singer, whom he knew personally, would be here shortly. We all looked at each other a bit askance, as the decked out lady was sitting just behind Randy, and was listening to our conversation. So we asked Randy if that was the singer, and she had just gotten up and was taking pictures around the place with a disposable camera.

“No, that’s not her. Do you think the star attraction would be using a $10 camera?”

After a few more minutes, and after it was obvious that there would not be enough room in the bar for all the guests, we asked Randy to ask the lady when the singer was coming. He did, and came back sheepishly to tell us that, yes, in fact, it was her. She took all this very well, and Randy probably did get to know her personally by the end of the evening, but by then we had all left for our rooms, for a good night’s sleep before our adventures of the next day, the journey to Macchu Pichu.

  The tourism trade around Cusco is heavily regulated, and since Randy did not have a tourist license, and had to deal through an intermediary, it was no surprise that we were ready to leave before our ticket packets arrived the next morning. But they did get there, but not our trustworthy van driver, whose credentials were also suspect, and who had been stopped by the local tourist police patrol and shaken down for lack of a taxi license. Running a bit late, we grabbed a couple of cabs, and Randy told the drivers to take us to the station. Since we were the only ones in the group who spoke Spanish, we had not trouble, as when the driver asked us, we told him we wanted the train station. The other cab was not so fortunate and ended up at the Bus terminal, and then had to drive at high speed all the way across town and just barely made the train that would take us to Ollantantambo, and then Aguas Calientes, which is at the foot of the winding trail up to the ruins at Macchu Pichu.

  Randy quickly recovered out tickets from his “agent”, and we boarded a lovely old train, whose only run these days is between Cusco and Aguascalientes. 

Train trip up the Sacred Valley

 The train heads up the Sacred Valley of the Incas, as the mountain sides begin to pull in closer and closer to the train tracks with each passing mile. Miles and miles of potato fields filled the valley floor, and as it was the season, each field displayed a different color of potato blossoms, punctuated by gaily dressed Peruvians working the fields. Here and there were fields of elote, or hominy. This is a corn with huge kernels, which was THE snack food for all our trips, boiled up and seasoned, and then eaten not like corn on the cob, but by snapping individual kernels off the cob. A bit touch, but quite tasy

  Halfway to Aguascalientes is the town of Ollantantambo, the site of the only victory the Incas could claim against the Spanish invaders. The Spanish, with a miniscule force, were able to conquer most Indian peoples because of the superiority of weaponry, but in a large part to the efficiency of their cavalry. The heavily armored Conquistador, upon his horse was an intimidating sight to the small and ill-equipped Incas. Here at Ollantantambo, however, the Spaniards ran across not only a fierce contingent of the Incas’ best warriors, but a leader who had a strategy for dealing with the cavalry. On one side of the valley were a steep set of agricultural terraces and a large supply of rocks. By placing his forces up on these terraces the Inca chief forced the Spanish to come to them, only to be greeted with a barrage of rocks, which were in great supply. In his foresight the Inca chief had also constructed a dam upriver from the battle site, and when 

Ollantantambo Terraces

the Spanish cavalry was poised at the bottom of the ravine as the foot soldiers tried to scale the terraces, he ordered the dike to be broken, and the entire cavalry was washed into the raging Obampo river. Without the cavalry to support them, the playing field had been leveled and the Inca warriors drove the Spanish out of the valley. It was a short victory celebration, however, and the town fell shortly thereafter.

Standing upon the terraces it is easy to imagine the scene. Stones for throwing are everywhere, and walls would be difficult to scale, and an inferior force could certainly hold the position. Looking up the narrow valley, and seeing the tremendous flow of the Obampo 

Raging Obampo River

river to the right, the vision of a wall of water rushing down the gorge and taking several hundred horses and riders to their deaths certainly can be contemplated.

We arrived in Aguascalientes, the gateway to Macchu Pichu to find a horrific example of unregulated development in a site that could have been beautiful. Because the flood of tourist to this sacred site is steadily increasing, everyone with a plot of land is trying to cash in by building some type of accommodations, literally on top of some shanty. Each construction is higher and higher, and most views are not of the beautiful river or jungle hillsides, but of more construction. The hostel we were supposed to stay in had the entire street before it in the process of being torn up by jackhammers, and the noise and dust were not what we wanted on the night before the highlight of the trip, so Mona and I grabbed our backs and began wandering about town looking for a better place to stay. After seeing several rooms which were fine, but which looked out upon crews of construction workers, we walked all the way down to the river, where there was one very nice hotel with a balcony overlooking the raging river and a view up the mountain toward the ruins, several thousand feet above. We were the only guests, and not only was the service excellent, but breakfast was included, made to order for us by the owner’s daughter, who stayed and chatted with us during breakfast about her life, her children, her terrible husband. Why people tell all these things to Mona is beyond me, but she should have been a therapist, as perfect strangers are perfectly willing to open up their deepest secrets without even being asked?

Mona had brought a few presents for people from Mexico, and she asked this girl if she was a Catholic, and if she would like a rosary, made in Mexico from stone beads. The girl was quite thrilled, and immediately put it around her neck. As she continued her life story, however, we were to learn that rather than being Catholic, she was a Jehovah’s Witness. Oh, well! But once again we were to learn about how much more interesting the trip becomes when we are able to speak to the natives, rather than fumble around with a phase book, or sign language. A simple breakfast can turn into a learning experience that is missed by the normal tourist.

MACCHU PICHU

Finally, the moment had arrived to head to perhaps the most famous spiritual location in the world, certainly in the Western Hemisphere. And it is a bit amusing, having read the history of the site, to realize that no one actually knows its purpose, nor if it was actually in use at the time of the Spanish Conquest. Granted there are a variety of ceremonial sites scattered within the complex, but it could have very well been the site of a single family’s fancy, rather than a strategic and historically significant site. But as with many such location, it is more about the feeling one gets than reality, or history that leaves an impression on the visitor.

We boarded one of the first buses to leave Aguas Calientes, and switchbacked our way up and up, finally reaching the staging area, and the site of a first class tourist hotel. We had studied up on the layout, and were aware that we were privileged to be here at such an early hour, as most tourists come straight from Cusco by train and arrive in the early afternoon in a giant wave of humanity, even at this time of year, and that we had the entire morning to enjoy the site in relative privacy.

We paid our fees and walked directly to the Hut of the Caretaker, recommended as the best site for our first glimpse of the ruins. It was a good choice. 

At the Hut of the Caretaker - with friend

The only inhabitants were a couple of llamas which kept down the growth of the grass, and which provided for a few pictures. At the moment of our arrival, the mountains were still smothered in the rain clouds which had greeted us the night before in Aguas Calientes, but it was apparent that we were going to be in luck. It had rained with a fury the last 22 days, and the rail tracks by which we had reached here had been completely washed away a week ago, stranding a group of tourists in Aguas Calientes for three days while repairs were made. But we could already see breaks in the cloud cover, and an occasional glimplse of Huayna Picchu, a point of rock several thousand feet higher than the ruins, and the typical background for photos of the site. There really are no words to describe the ruins themselves. Maybe it is just the location, sitting on this 8000 ft ridge, dropping off to the Urubamba River, which makes a sharp turn around Haynu Pichu reverses its course. We sat for a long while on an exposed rock shelf, watching the changing shadows, and waiting for the moment when the sun would illuminate the entire site. When it did, no one gasped, no one spoke, but we were all spellbound at the site. I am not even sure I managed to grab the camera, for fear of losing it, and having to wait again.

There are very few occasions in our short existence that can bring on the emotion that surfaced at that moment of light and clouds and history and craftsmanship and vision. That same emotion must have made the visionary proud in the moment of completion, when the pieces all fit, and he brought his master to this point on an early morning some 600 years ago, and waited, as we did for the clouds to part.

After that we wandered through the ruins (it is hard to call them ruins, because the only thing lacking are the timbers and thatched roofs), following our map and marveling at each individual compound, the water system, the sacred sites, and the unbelievable craftsmanship that went into the project.

Several times we just stopped, sat on a stone that had not yet reached its destination, and enjoyed. By early afternoon, we had visited most of the highlights, and I began to look up at Huayna Pichu with an unexpected desire to reach the top. Certainly not in the best of shape, I knew that the climb would be ambitious, but Mona was ready for a nap, and there was a perfect nook in a rock at the entrance to the trail, and with a bit of trepidation I signed in (a requirement), and headed up. Up is not enough of a word to describe any part of the ascent. Granted the Incas had been generous enough to carve steps up the mountain, but they forgot the oxygen masks, as with every twenty or so steps came a shortness of breath, a spinning of the head, that required a moment’s rest. The guidebook had said to give an hour and a half, and I kept track of my progress on my watch. If I was not on schedule in an hour I would turn back. I passed several groups that had already turned back, and after 45 minutes I ran into Dave, who was making his way back down. He was surprised to see me, but insisted that I should go on, as I was well over half-way. He also told me about a choice or routes, one extremely steep, the other through a slimy tunnel in the mountain, that was a bit tight.

Not a choice for me. While I am not afraid of heights, I do have a mild case of claustrophobia, and I chose the steep over the narrow. When I came to the junction, however, there was a moment of doubt, as I looked upon the 200 steps with a bit of mistrust. I knew I could get up, but coming down might be a different story. Going up you just have to look up. It’s different when you look down a thousand feet and think about a misstep.

What the hell! I literally ran up the stairs, and then had to traverse a rock face to reach the top, where a half-dozen or so people were enjoying the view, and fighting the wind, which made standing a bit of a challenge. There is a special seat made into an overhanging rock, and we took turns taking each other’s pictures with Macchu Pichu below as a vague background.

The trip down was much easier on the lungs, but much more difficult on the knees and the legs, as fatigue started setting in and introduced a wobble that was uncontrollable, and a bit scary. But aside from the 200 steps, all went well. When I returned, again having chosen to avoid the tunnel to the top of the steps, I was first of all amazed that I had dared to come up, and not at all looking forward to going down. A normal set of stairs had a tread of at least 10 inches. Because of the steepness, however, the Incas had had to make theirs not quite the width of a shoe, more like 3-4 inches. Below me a wife and her enormous Aussie husband had just started down, and I watched in fascination as the wife scurried down without a moment’s hesitation and half-way looked back at her husband. Trouble! He first tried to go down facing the hill, but his gut would not allow him the comfort of leaning toward the hill. Plus, his size 20 shoes were mostly hanging over the edge. Then he tried to turn around, and now his gut had become the counterweight, which was hanging into never-never land. He looked up at me in a mixture of fear and embarrassment, but I did not know what to tell him. From Dave’s description this guy would get stuck in the tunnel anyway, so this was his only choice. So I began the descent myself, neither forward, nor backward, but sideways, crossing each leg over the other and using the entire with of stair. As long as I kept my weight toward the mountain, and did not look down, it was fine. I reached our Aussie friend, and by this time his wife had come up to meet him, and his face was pretty ashen, and a fainting spell, was definitely not a good idea. So we made idle conversation for a few minutes until some blood returned to his face, and I asked him to watch me, as he would not look down toward his wife. So I climbed a few steps, and in the same manner descended, never looking down and always grasping at the stair by my shoulders to steady myself. He gave it a try, and immediately felt better, and one baby step at a time we reached the regular trail below, where his wife thanked me profusely as he regained his composure. At the bottom I found Mona waiting for me and while my legs were burning, I felt good and felt grateful for all those years of working  in the mountains, that had left a bit of spring in these aging legs.

As we waited for the bus to take us back to Aguas Calientes, we noticed a group of young children all dressed in Inca finery waiting by each bus. As each bus left on of them would salute and begin running down the mountain on a trail that headed straight down. We didn’t quite catch the significance until it was our turn, and one of the boys came on the bus, saluted and took off. As the bus careened down the many switchbacks, each time we crossed the trail the kid would be there with a loud yell and a salute. At the bottom, he got on and passed the hat, and we were amazed at the take. We donated a bit, but I would have been a lot more impressed had he started at the bottom and chased us to the top.

Our trip back to Lima and the journey back to Mexico was by way of Juliaca, a tough mountain city, with a complete lack of social structure. The Wild West. As we approached the airport we noticed that our van driver's companion, whose purpose we had not been able to determine, pulled a tire iron from behind his seat, and became more vigilant once we had reached town. In answer to our obvious question, he calmly noted that there was very little police presence in this city, and that because we had all our bags tied to the top, we were in danger of getting these bags stolen anytime we stopped for traffic. As we started to look around, it was obvious that the normal car top carrier was a contraption not unlike chain mail, which would be locked down and impossible to slice through with anything but wire cutters. Definitely not a place to visit. Peru, in general, had a much different feel than Mexico, and we were constantly warned to watch our watches, our wallets, and our packs. A large segment of the population, not having employment, were thieves, and although violence was very uncommon, the art of thievery was a required course, and an accepted way of life, especially in the bigger cities. Between our eight travelers, we lost one cheap watch to the street thieves, but it does not make for a great vacation to always be thinking, and watching, and holding on to your stuff.

We learned some valuable lessons about guided trips. We should have asked about the quality of the hotel rooms. In 17 days, there were not many where there was a comfort level that could not have been improved upon with the addition of a few dollars a day. None of our hotels were listed in the guidebooks, which should have been a dead giveaway. Probably the most frustrating aspect was the beds. Only a few times did we score a double bed, much less a queen. And a king was two singles pushed together, but with the added complication of the two beds not being at the same level, and often on rollers, which unfortunately sometimes caused one of us to end up on the floor between the beds. Couples who sleep together should insist on "matrimonial" beds, at the least. Hot water was always questionable, and only in a few instances, like when we mutinied and moved to a better hotel, available when we wanted it. Having the manager tell us that there would be hot water in the morning and the evening, must have had a problem with the translation of morning and evening, as this rarely occurred when we awoke or before we went to bed.. Sometimes there were circuit boxes in the showers, which would turn on a heating element, and which did not give us a lot of electrical code confidence.

While it is interesting to eat what the natives eat, after a week or so, we were tired of potatoes, gruel, and the same look to pork and trout. A slightly higher level of restaurant never cost very much, and provided a variety of new tastes. The common meal is cheap, filling, and could be prepared at home. After traveling several thousand miles, we would be more interested in paying a couple of dollars more for something more special. But maybe Peru doesn't have such specialties. I guess we are spoiled with the luxuries of fish sarandeado, shrimp al diablo, oysters on the half shell, chilaquiles, sopes, enchiladas, tamales, chicken mole, chiles rellenos, ceviche, sopa de mariscos, fajitas de pollo. Next time we would study up on the culinary highlights a bit more, and seek out the special dishes, which I am sure are to be found.

We realized that it is tough to beat our current locations of beach and sand and palms in the winter, and mountains and pines and sage in the summer. Peru is cold in the mountains, and does not have any beaches of note. Two weeks was too long, unless one chose to go into the Amazon for the jungle experience.

But, complaints aside, it was a "once in a lifetime" trip. The altitude of Lake Titicaca, the simple people still tilling the soil by hand, the terraced hillsides, and the unforgettable stonework of the Incas, with Macchu Pichu as its centerpiece drifts into our consciousness at odd times, reminding us that there are other worlds out there, and more places to explore to fill those gaps in our future memories.

Min & Mona