The Sacred Valley
The previous night, we decided to eat out, and found ourselves in a restaurant that did a pretty impressive mixed grill. I was grateful for having a native Spanish speaker with me who understood the details of the menu, unlike some other westerners who decided to be adventurous and inadvertently ordered themselves some grilled offal. When their meals arrived, their reactions conveyed that although they hadn’t understood it on the menu, they understood what they’d ordered now.
When we returned to the hostal, we decided on a whim to confirm our tour booking for the following day. It turned out there wasn’t a booking to confirm, as the hostal staff had neglected to make it. Fortunately for them and us (I think), they were able to get us booked on a tour for the next day. After breakfast, we got a taxi down to the offices of the tour company, and were then collected from there by the guide, who walked us around to the Plaza de Armas where we were to be collected by the bus.
The thing to keep in mind about the tour buses operating here is that they are built for maximum capacity. Given some of the areas they were taking us; larger, more comfortable road coaches weren’t practical, so we found ourselves packed into a smaller tour bus similar to the one that had bounced us into Chavín. Initially, it was a tight squeeze. Someone of my stature really had to pack down into an uncomfortable (and inflexible) position to be able to sit in the space provided. My kneecaps were jammed against the back of the seat in front of me, and there was exactly zero room for me to move.
An hour or so into the trip, and the woman in front of me decided she wanted to be more comfortable, and so put her seat back without warning. The steel frame of her seat crunched my kneecaps, and admittedly I should’ve used that opportunity to illustrate to her what she’d just done. But as we’d been pretty much the last ones on the bus, and it was early in the tour, I was still a bit timid, and so I suffered in silence until we reached Pisaq.
Pisaq consists of numerous preserved Incan terraces, and a temple complex at the summit. To reach the latter, there’s a lengthy, steep walk involved, along a path that hugs the mountainside with no handrail and in some places a considerable drop off the edge. It’s by no means the most dangerous Incan trail you could walk along, but the risk is increased when flocks of tourists are attempting to pass along the trail in both directions, and more so when the track is wet and slippery.
I pitied the tour guide, as no sooner had we emerged from the bus and started towards the trail to the ruins of Pisaq, than we realised four people were missing. Four polaks from the group had decided it’d be a good idea to have a feast on the cooked maize being offered by the locals. Through the day they were to prove to be like the reckless children that run off in front of the group, disappearing while they have their fun, and making everyone else wait for them to show up so they don’t get left behind.
It was the beginnings of the rainy season, and heavy clouds loomed on every peak around us. The guide recommended we buy the ponchos on offer if we hadn’t already brought waterproof clothing. For some silly reason, despite the signals in the sky, we decided we’d probably be ok, and proceeded up the mountainside to the ruins. We’d been given an introduction on what the different structures were (except the Polaks, who were only interested in getting to the summit), and then the rain set in. We tried to push up the trail towards the summit, but it seemed the further up we went, the heavier the rain became. We found ourselves huddling against the wall of one of the temples, sheltering from the rain as best we could, and it was at that point we decided we’d had enough, and went back down. Of course, by the time we got back to the bus, it had stopped raining.
My brother and his fiancé visited Pisaq a year previously, much later in the year and much further into the wet season, but had somehow been lucky enough to get a day that was hot and relatively clear. On days like that, there are apparently lots of pan flutes competing for air. No such luck for us. There were one or two who stubbornly persisted in their efforts to play, but were regularly driven to shelter by the rain, which came in persistent waves.
We got back on the bus and I took the opportunity to put the seat in front of me back to its original position, hoping she’d get the hint (or better yet, not notice). Alas, when she boarded, the opposite of the latter happened (and only the latter). She gave me a cold stare as she sat down, and my kneecaps got crunched yet again. I decided it was now past pleasantries, and shifted my knees to where there was a bit more give in the seat, affording me a small amount of extra space to make the trip a little more bearable. That this happened to correspond to where the small of her back would be, couldn’t be helped I guess. Those seats were very cramped.
They stopped us for lunch at a roadside campestre somewhere between Pisaq and Ollantaytambo, and people split off into their various ethnic groups. The polaks huddled together in one spot, the Australians gathered in a relatively large and boisterous group with the handful of Americans, and then there were a few others who isolated themselves from the group (we were among these isolationists, though the guides found their way to sitting near us).
The food was good, though unremarkable, and it was not long after that as we headed to Ollantaytambo, that my bowels began to make their presence felt again. I’d had a few moments in the past days where I’d thought the runs from Huaraz were making a come back, but for the most part the fort was holding. It didn’t occur to me that the runs were always there, and that the concrete plug of gastro stop was about to wear off, and at the worst time.
At Ollantaytambo we were set down in a large open lot where all the tourist buses were parked. Some larger road coaches had got in here, though I’m not sure how. Ollantaytambo is still for the most part, an Inca town. The approaching road zigzags up the sides of several high terraces, and the streets are narrow, with little turning space for even mid-sized vehicles. From the bus park, we were led through the narrow pedestrian alleys, complete with aqueducts running through them, to the market, which sits at the entrance to the large archaeological site.
On the hillside behind the town, large terraces—each 2–3 metres high—climbed the hillside, with a steep stone staircase ascending through the middle of them on it’s way to a sun temple that overlooked the town below and the valley beyond. Were it not for the people swarming over it, you wouldn’t really get a true sense of scale of the place, but of course there were people swarming over it, so it was very easy to see there was a difficult climb ahead of us. With my camera gear in my daypack pulling me backwards, I found it easiest to ascend by being mostly bent over and using my hands to try and drag myself up. I got the best indication of just how unfit I had become when I needed to stop two thirds of the way up to get my breath back. It was made harder by the growing need to keep my buttocks clenched as firmly as possible for fear of a sudden and unexpected discharge. Worse still, I was dehydrating as the runs that had plagued me some days earlier retook control of my body.
Across the valley from the terraces, a large structure was visible carved out of the mountain—the guide told us it had been the food stores for the Incan community, and had been wonderfully adept at refrigerating the supplies contained within, due to the cold winds that funnelled along the valley and swept across that particular face of the mountain.
From the Sun Temple, we could see a considerable distance along the valley, and beyond where people could venture. The road essentially stops at Ollantaytambo, and the trip into the jungle to visit Machu Picchu can only be made by train (unless you have the days to spend walking in along the Inca Trail). We were due to get our train into Aguas Calientes (Machu Picchu township) from here in less than a day, and had we known of the ability to do so, would’ve left the tour at this point to get an extra day here. I could see the train line snaking along the valley for some distance, and then followed the lines of the valley until they were closed off by the eastern Andes. Somewhere in there was the place I’d been longing to get to for a great portion of my life, and I found myself wondering how Hiram Bingham would have felt as he followed the Urubamba to his fate.
I was brought back to earth with the sudden churning of my bowels and a compelling urge to hold on tight. The rest of the group were already moving on, snaking across the top of the terraces along a narrow path, and through small buildings assembled against the rock face. Once we got back to the valley floor, we were led back to the bus park, where I found the “lady” in front of me had already taken her position and was now sitting quite comfortably, with her seat back. I did my best to disturb her as I squished myself back into position. I had been telling myself that this couple must’ve been American, given how rude they were. But over the course of the day, Edgard had noticed they were speaking Spanish, and when we were climbing on Ollantaytambo, also pointed out that the guy had a Canberra t-shirt on.
There was a good possibility they were Australian, which just made things even worse. I really didn’t want to believe that my fellow countrymen would be inconsiderate like that, and tried to excuse them as not real Australians—Edgard had identified her as a native Spanish speaker and although the guy wasn’t, he could understand Spanish. He was also wearing a Canberra t-shirt. No-one actually from Canberra would wear such a thing. My knees went back into position behind her back. If I was going to be uncomfortable then by God, so was she.
We climbed back into the mountains enroute to Chinchero, the last stop on the tour. Back in the highlands, the views became expansive, and we could see the occasional snow-capped mountain lurking beneath heavy clouds. A rainbow stretched down into the valley below us and to the east, the colours of the mountains punctuated against the grey of the cloud by a largely unobstructed sun entering magic hour. It was hard to believe we were over 3.5km above sea level and in the middle of one of the most dramatic mountain ranges in the world. Up on the high plains, the landscape rolled away gently, disguising the forces at work beneath us that had thrust the earth skywards.
We came into Chinchero and were given a shortened introduction (we’d spent too long at Ollantaytambo), before being bustled off to what was probably one of the best parts of the day for me. One of the people on the tour had departed at Ollantaytambo to catch the train into Machu Picchu, but in so doing, they had to miss this leg of the trip. I’m glad we didn’t—this, a typical highland Andean town, was what I’d come to see. Admittedly I could get further off the beaten track and go to the Quechua speaking regions not far off the main tourist trails for a more authentic experience, but this was pretty close to the mark.
We walked up a steep street to the back of some buildings where a small, mostly covered courtyard was laid out with tables stacked with garments made from alpaca wool. A couple of tejedoras were perched on small stools, weaving large swatches of highly coloured cloth. A number of other local inhabitants joined us, and began demonstrating the ways in which they first cleaned, spun, coloured, and finally wove the fine wool of the alpaca. Starting with the cleaning of the wool, they used a variety of natural sources such as plants, they derived a complete schema of rich, vibrant colour. What really astonished me was how much time they invested; a scarf with a pattern design of medium complexity could take them three months to weave. I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to buy a couple of scarves for the nieces—25 soles (AU$7) each—and would’ve bought more here, direct from the producers, had I brought enough cash. Next time I’m in South-East Peru, I’m so going back.
From the small store, we were led up to the local plaza and church. We were told we couldn’t take photos inside, and once there, we could see why. The walls and ceiling were covered with religious artwork so detailed and extensive, there wasn’t a piece of stone nor ceiling not covered. As we emerged from the church, the last orange light was flaring off the white adobe wall of the church, and I got this picture. You can see the remains of the Incan structure composing the foundations for the church. The Spaniards did this all through the Andes to usurp the Incan religion, but now I think it serves more as a memorial to the cultures they destroyed.
As the bus rolled down the road, one of the locals gave us all a sample of his anís liqueur. Pretty potent stuff, I think he even sold a few bottles, though not to me. I was by this stage only concerned with getting my backside attached to a toilet. Next time, maybe.