Machu Picchu, Peru June 2, 1979

Sue and I start off very early – around 4:30 am, the sun not yet risen – walking along the railroad tracks from Banos towards Machu Picchu.  A little river rushes beside us.  All is quiet except this rushing river, the odd chirp or squeak of some nocturnal bird, beast or insect.  The black lace fabric of leaves overhead, gently waving, beckoning in their slightly ephemeral, not-to-be-trusted way – come hither, come hither.  Eucalyptus friends, hello.  I see the birds in your branches, the animals in your arms.  We are in a deep valley, and above the trees the cusp-like mountains rise, black against an inky cloud-darkened sky.  Submerged in the wet warmth, these dark soldiers stand sentry all around me.  They change their shapes – now soft, rounded wing, now sharp-toothed snout – but you weren’t there, before – YOU WEREN’T THERE!  But of course it was there all along.  They all were.  And have been since time out of mind.  Testimony to the power, the magic, the overwhelming presence of this place.  I feel that there is something too strong for me here – something that will always be too strong for me – that humbles me.  

Still dark, early morning dark, as we continue along the track, maintaining a conspiracy of silence, the silence too-early-morning-riser’s-tongue, of determination to reach our destination, of expectancy of a highly vaunted wonder of the world, and perhaps just a hint of fear of potential trivialization – the intrusion of banal comments by tired tourists wanting nothing more than to snap a few selfies in front of the ruins, and then head back to their luxury hotels and well-stocked bars.

 

We leave the track and climb up the rocky trail on the backside of Machu Picchu, the path less traveled.  It is quite heavily forested and not particularly well-marked.  Or well-trodden.  And it’s not an easy climb.  In some places we have to scrabble on hands and knees, clutching at branches to pull ourselves up.  It takes us almost two hours, but finally we reach the tacky series of boxes with ugly band-aid fixes they call the ‘Tourist Hotel’ at the top of Machu Picchu’s backside.

 

We are standing in the muck of the hotel ‘complex’, entering Machu Picchu through its asshole, as it were, exhilarated and exhausted by the climb, but still inspired and energized by the fantasy of what’s to come.  We pay our 100 soles at the gate and we are in, several hours before the train full of tourists will arrive from Cuzco, at eleven.  We have the whole of Machu Picchu almost to ourselves: the warm, soft, feminine roundedness, the lyricism, the enchantment of the lichen-covered, wildflower-strewn rock poems, rock fantasies, all to ourselves.  

And to the four llamas grazing below in the soft rock-shadows of the mountains and ruins, oblivious to the grandeur, but adding to it in their unmistakably haughty, arrogant way.

 

I wander for a couple of hours, exploring the ruined buildings, walls, roads.  Admiring the amazing Incan rock work.  I am awed by It All.  These people, whoever built this place, whoever lived in this place, this hobbit-land Heidi home in the hills, must have been very high, and very beautiful.  

I climb higher to get a better view of the comlpex, and come upon a huge, flat, perfect half-round, sculpted rock with various protuberances and markings.  It is the ‘reloj de los Incas’ – the famous Incan sun dial – that I promised the little girl with the butterfly eyes I would find.  I wish I could tell her. 

 

I sit in the middle of the sun dial, and look down on the ancient city, across to the jagged cusps and ragged teeth encircling it.  I feel again the power, the flow of energy.  This place is magic.  The sun is rising now from somewhere deep within the ranks of the army of granite giants around it, playing games of light and shadow with them all.  Behind me, clear and sun-bright now a far-away range of snow-capped peaks: “we’re here, we’re here, offering our glistening magic over all”.  I have visions of many more snow-capped peaks, the great white molars of the Canadian Rockies, singing hellos to a springtime sun.  These mountains are so high, so HIGH.  And so, so beautiful.  

 

I make salutations to the sun, giver of warmth, so vital on these cold days and nights.

I make salutations to the sun, giver of all life and energy.

I make salutations to the sun, giver of love.

I sit in appreciation of my good fortune to Be Here Now.  

 

And from this lofty height I gaze down into the shadowed cool of the massive stone walls, the terraces cascading like giant steps below me, purple grass and flower filled and humming now loudly, now faintly, as the tricks of mountain breezes play games with the sounds of the quickly beating wings of bees and birds.  

A flight of narrow stone stairs descends directly below me.  It looks steep, and endless.  I am humbled by a vision of thousands of sturdy-built, half-naked bodies ascending and descending these stairs, day after day, often bearing heavy, awkward loads.  Working to feed, house and clothe their rulers who sit, like me, at the top, likely with little notion, and certainly no concern, for those who make their lives so easy, so pleasant.  Have things changed so much since then?  The rich, the powerful, the ones who see a little bit farther than the rest, forever and always sitting on the top of the mountain, lording over all, over all those busy workers, all those who accept, without question, that this unending toil is their lot in life, to do as they are told.  Always and forever.  The man in the bakery in Ollantaytambo, shoveling pancitos into the fire, the man on the Ford factory assembly, turning the proverbial screw.  Has it ever changed?  Will it ever change?  It seems no matter how hard they work, no matter fast they run, they will never catch up.

 

I descend just partway down the stairs, and then along a terrace, exploring this magnificent ruin.  In the cool of another rock wall I sit again and contemplate the wonder of the rocks around me.  Such careful masonry; here the stones not sculpted and fitted together in angular, hard-edged precision, but painstakingly selected, for size and shape, to fashion into softer, more poetic, walls.  They slope inwards, for stability; they have tall windows, narrower at the top than the base.  The walls are chinked with red-brown mud.  People lived here, and listened, as I do now, to the songs of the mountain birds, insects and animals.  That strange shrill hum of crickets, faintly sinister.

 

The happy sound of a hummingbird’s wings now attracts my attention.  It is enjoying the bright red flowers that grow on the tops of the ruined walls.  A family of small blue-black birds with white-white breasts, swooping and swirling, calling to one another over my head.  Perhaps they have a nest in this window-niche above me.  Two lizards, sunning themselves, almost invisible amidst the rocky rubble, but jerk-jerking their heads and necks as iguanas often do, giving themselves away.  Visions of the two llamas I have just watched, romping and butting, playing with each other almost like goats, grunting and groaning as they throw their weight, neck and head first, at one another, and make contact, with a thud, and a snort.  It doesn’t seem a serious fight.  The animals here seem to be enjoying the refuge, the sanctity of this protected national monument.  They are free to live within the ruins, make their dens and nests, forage for food.  I wonder which animals will inhabit the vacated high-rises, the cement and glass boxes, the steel towers, and the asphalt labyrinth of the roads we will leave behind?  

 

A butterfly flits over my head and is gone.  It leads me down, away from my shady stone recluse, away from the cyclical thoughts of civilizations replacing civilizations, of rises and falls, of the samenesses and differences among and between them all; leads me away from attempted analyses, superfluous structurings, intellectual gamesmanship; leads me down to another double-edged stone seat in the sun, perched just on the edge, on the lip of the hillside, marshalling together the troops, the massive stone soldiers marching towards us up the sun-dappled valley.  Led by a particularly regal stone slab which seems at once to be beckoning up towards us, and also looking down protectively upon us.  Granite General, General Granite.  Lying in the full and direct rays of the sun, feeling once more the powers, the energies of this magic place.  Feeling full, sated.  And remembering the wise words of an old friend: “Remember to leave when it’s good; always leave when it’s still good.”

 

And so, before the tourists arrive, I make my way towards the ‘back entrance’, not having completely ‘done’ the ruins, not having climbed Wynu Picchu, not having walked back up the Inca trail to the main gate overlooking the ancient city.  But knowing that I was not, am not, prepared to do these things alone, and could not, cannot, bear to do them with someone other, someone who may not share the sentiments I have.  These are sacred journeys, not to be taken lightly or without due reverence.  I am at peace with my decision.  And my timing is good, for here come the tourists, shouting and laughing, hiking boots clomping, cameras clicking.  “Oh look honey, look at the llamas!  Aren’t they cute!”  I quickly make good my escape.

 

Now, sitting at the Machu Picchu train station, I am surrounded by little rag-a-muffin kids.  They are fascinated by my journal, and especially by the dibujos (drawings) within it.  I offer them my pencil, and invite them to make their mark on a fresh white page, but they are hesitant, unwilling to try.  “No puedo, no se como hacer dibujos” (I can’t, I don’t know how to make drawings).  Their big dark eyes look up at me in wonder.  And immediately I understand why it will take so long – never and forever – for any real change to come here.  

 

I walk back along the tracks alone to Banos.  About half-way there I become aware that I am being followed by a man, an indigenous man, who does not look entirely friendly.  I have heard warnings about a man who has accosted, and raped, women who are walking alone on these tracks.  I suspect it may be him.  I turn to face him, and see that he carries a machete, but that is not unusual.  Still, I am wary, and think: this is him.  I take a chance and once he’s close enough I smile and say hello.  And then I ask him if he is the man who hurts women.  He doesn’t respond.  So I feel more certain.  I decide my best chance of avoiding violence is to get him talking.  So I ask him why he does what he does.  “Why do you hurt women?”  We fall to walking together, him talking almost non-stop about the hopelessness of his life, the desperation he feels, the anger at his circumstances, the anger at the world – and women.  I do my best to keep him talking.  

 

An hour later we arrive in Banos, and I invite him to sit in an eatery with me where I will buy him a coffee, some food.  The woman who serves us tries to get my attention, to warn me about him.  She doesn’t know that I know.  I know who he is.  Other locals are looking, shaking their heads in wonder.  What is this gringa doing?  He keeps talking as he eats – rice, meat, bread, coffee.  I sip slowly at a coffee, and experience wave after wave of relief.  I am safe.  I realize I am shaking, but he doesn’t seem to notice.  After he leaves it is some time before I feel strong enough to get up and go back to the hotel.  Where I collapse on my bed and cry.  Sometimes it is All just Too Much.

 

Note:  I did not take my camera to Machu Picchu as I wanted not to be distracted by wanting to take pictures, but rather wanted to fully experience the site.  All of the photos were taken by friends.  The day I was there was sunnier than what most of these pictures show.  

 

For more information about Machu Picchu go to:  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Machu_Picchu

From Wikipedia (abridged):

Machu Picchu is a 15th-century Inca citacel located in the Eastern Cordillera of southern Peru on a 2,430-meter (7,970 ft) mountain ridge.   ... The Urubamba River flows past it, cutting through the Cordillera and creating a canyon with a tropical mountain climate. ...

Machu Picchu was built in the classical Inca style, with polished dry-stone walls. Its three primary structures are the Intihuatana, the Temple of the Sun, and the Room of the Three Windows. Most of the outlying buildings have been reconstructed in order to give visitors a better idea of how they originally appeared.  By 1976, 30% of Machu Picchu had been restored and restoration continues.

Machu Picchu was believed ...  to have been built in the 1450s.  However, a 2021 study led by Professor Burger used radiocarbon dating ... to reveal that Machu Picchu may have been occupied from around 1420-1530 AD. Construction appears to date from two great Inca rulers, Pachacutec Inca Yupanqui (1438–1471) and Tupac Inca Yupanqui (1472–1493). There is a consensus among archeologists that Pachacutec ordered the construction of the royal estate for his use as a retreat, most likely after a successful military campaign. Although Machu Picchu is considered to be a "royal" estate, surprisingly, it would not have been passed down in the line of succession. Rather it was used for 80 years before being abandoned, seemingly because of the Spanish Conquests in other parts of the Inca Empire. It is possible that most of its inhabitants died from smallpox introduced by travelers before the Spanish conquistadors arrived in the area.

 

Note on  Incan stone-masonry:

From Wikipedia:

Oral histories in the Quechua language suggest that the ancient Inca married Pachamama (Mother Earth) and produced human offspring. The Incas are renowned for their precision in stone masonry. Architecture was a means of bringing order to untamed areas and people of the Andes region. Machu Picchu, located in the Sacred Valley, is an example of the Incas adapting building strategies that acknowledge the topography of the area. While other Pre-Columbian cultures constructed man-made mountains, the Incas emphasized the natural forms of the topography around them.