The craziest 72 hours of my life: Machu Picchu

The bus ride probably took around 30 minutes.  When we got off the bus, we were admonished.  No food in Machu Picchu. No drinks except water.  No bathrooms. Once you're in, you're in; if you leave you stay out, no re-entry.  Everyone took a few minutes to use the restroom, and then we filed through the gates.

"The first stop," Felix told us, "is the overlook.  We will have to climb this hill to get to it."

"How much of a climb?" someone asked.

"Well, that depends," Felix responded. "Inca style or Peruvian style?"

The crowd laughed. "Inca style," the man responded.

"5 minutes," Felix told him.

"And Peruvian style?" someone else asked.

"Oh, 25 minutes probably," Felix said, and we all laughed again.

We started to climb.  It didn't take me 25 minutes, but it certainly took me more than five.  As I made each turn, I grew more and more excited.  What would Machu Picchu look like?

************

OVER THE YEARS, THE BIGGEST ROADBLOCK to writing about this day, June 28, 2007, has been and continues to be my utter inability to write about Machu Picchu.  "What would Machu Picchu look like?" is a TERRIBLE introduction; there's thousands upon thousands of pictures online with photos of Machu Picchu.  The sight line isn't the point. The adjectives tossed about are worthless: mystical, beautiful, pristine, haunting.  I don't think a prose writer--any prose writer--could do it justice; perhaps a poet, a better one than me, might make progress.  A musician, maybe. Perhaps the closest seen I've seen is when Ernesto and Alberto explore the ruins in the movie The Motorcycle Diaries.

Perhaps it's for that reason that my memories--my specific memories--of my three or so hours in the ruins tend towards the quotidian.  The llamas grazing on the abundant open grass. A remark from Felix about how Incan babies are born with birthmarks on their backs (my son has one).  Cody, our official photographer coming up with ingenious poses for Adam and I.  Sneaking some crackers because none of us had eaten since the Snickers bar.  And bumping into Roy, and trying to avoid Roy, and every time we saw Roy, Adam quoting Roy from the bus ride from Cusco.  This must have happened five times before I finally said:

"How much of our conversation did you hear?" I asked.

"Pretty much the whole thing."

"Really? He must have been pretty loud."

"Louder than fuck," Cody interjected. "No one could sleep because of that dipshit.

"He's lucky he found that woman," Adam said. "Everyone else was standing him up."

We laughed and continued exploring.  Our time was beginning to run out, and Adam decided to split a bit early to engage in battle with his digestive system.  Cody followed, but I walked down to the edge of the ancient town.  I didn't dare cross the final fence, but I sat on it and looked:

To look down from Machu Picchu is to realize just how isolated you are, how precariously you are situated.  The ancient Incan engineers had designed the town to be self-sustaining: land to grow crops, enough water to irrigate them and drink.  Some people claim to have it figured it out, but all we really know is that some people, probably some of them very important, spent time here in the 15th and 16th centuries, then split. For violence? Disease? Famine? No one knows.

But it is a place, in a geographical miracle, where a construction miracle also took place.  Natural wonder and man-made wonder rolled up into one.  The stones that construct Machu Picchu are still in place after 500 years of existence--and three centuries of utter neglect.  And the stone itself doesn't come from that part of the mountain--it had to be brought up there and placed, without using wheels. Without fucking using wheels! All this, in place so remote, so isolated, that the very Incas whose ancestors constructed it couldn't find it in the centuries to come.

I looked down and verdant green, but unforgiving slopes.  I gazed into the blue skies, becoming thick with the afternoon clouds. I heard no one; the crowd was growing scarce as the Park Service began quietly pushing people to leave.  I took a sip of water.  A feeling of peacefulness, a strange powerful peacefulness, washed over me.  And in that moment, I felt God pulse between my veins, consume my skin.  In that moment I didn't doubt God anymore than I doubted the llama chewing on the grass a few yards away from me. I said a silent prayer to whoever or whatever God was:

Thank you.

To be continued....

The craziest 72 hours of my life: Aguas Calientes and the bus to Machu Picchu

At one point (probably many, but I remember this one in particular), the train came to a halt, and there were some indigenous girls, probably eight or ten years old, playing right outside the train on an ancient piece of farming machinery.  Some Portuguese guys, quite verbal (and obnoxious) in their own right, yelled out the window at them in broken Spanish, and took several pictures. The girls smiled shyly and continued playing.

This bothered me.  It was as if, to these guys, the girls were part of the scenery, another element of the exotic, another Incan wall to document for their travel blog. I could just see these blowhards flying back into Lisbon the next week and showing this picture to their privileged, elite friends and saying, "See, we saw it all in Peru: the mountains, the jungle, AND real, live, off-the-grid, poor Indians."

But I tried to withhold judgment; I didn't need that negative energy. We were almost to Aguas Calientes.

**********

AGUAS CALIENTES WAS KNOWN for most of its inauspicious life for its thermal springs, hence the name (literally, "hot waters" in English).  Even after the railroad arrived in 1901 and Machu Picchu was rediscovered by the American archaeologist Hiram Bingham in 1911, Aguas Calientes lived most of its existence as just another Andean village in the state of Cusco.  As Machu Picchu gradually became known first throughout the region, then the country, then the continent, travelers sought it out; but for several decades the only way of arriving was the so-called "Inca Trail", a five-day trek from Cusco down into the fertile valley, then back up to the ruins.

All that changed when the Peruvian government, finally realizing what a cash cow they had on their hands, established the railway from Cusco down to Aguas Calientes, and roads capable of hosting buses and vans were built back up the mountains to the ruins.  Now it was possible for a traveler to leave Cusco in the morning, see the ruins, and be back in Cusco by bedtime.  Machu Picchu, and along with it, Aguas Calientes, flourished.  The site became known around the world, to the point where, on June 28, 2007, visitors were encouraged to vote via computer that Machu Picchu be named one of the redefined "Seven Wonders of the World". (It was, and that day, early in July, is celebrated annually in Cusco).

We got out of the train around 10:00 and gaped.  Aguas Calientes is probably only a town of 10,000 or so, but every morning and afternoon, especially during the peak tourist season, which we were in, it swells to double or triple its size as the trains arrive.  Bright traditional Incan clothing and artifacts were all around us.  As we turned the corner from the train station, we entered a huge tourist bazaar, probably half a football field in size.  Cody and I scrambled down our mental checklist of people we needed to buy stuff for as we roamed the market.

"What time do we have to get the bus?" Adam asked.

"11:00."

"Where at?"

"Shit, I don't know," I told him. "We'll just have to follow the people."

We did, and eventually came upon a row of buses with letters and numbers.  We found S21, but it was already full.  Fortunately, they found room for us on another bus.

When I say "bus" it's not a bus as we imagine them.  It is more like a huge van, with room for maybe 20 or 25 people to sit.  Our tour group was almost entirely composed of Americans and Europeans. At the head of our bus was our tour guide. I don't remember his name, so I'll call him "Felix".  Felix spoke to us in English, his third language; Spanish was his second language. He had spent the first years of his life speaking Quechua, one of the languages of the Incas, and still spoke it at home with his family.

We grew warm, then hot as we waited for the bus to depart.  Finally it did, creeping slowly up the gravel roads that hug the steep Andean mountainside.  Lush vegetation surrounded us; had we not been so high up in the air (well over a mile), we would have been in a tropical rain forest.  As we ascended, I tried not to look down even as I craned my neck to get a first peek at the famous ruins. But the Peruvian government was smart. Aided by their ancient Incan predecessors, Machu Picchu was situated in such a way that despite its size, despite its majesty, you can't see it until you are literally on top of it. (Perhaps that is how it lay dormant for more than three centuries, unknown even to its closest neighbors).

The bus ride probably took around 30 minutes.  When we got off the bus, we were admonished.  No food in Machu Picchu. No drinks except water.  No bathrooms. Once you're in, you're in; if you leave you stay out, no re-entry.  Everyone took a few minutes to use the restroom, and then we filed through the gates.

"The first stop," Felix told us, "is the overlook.  We will have to climb this hill to get to it."

"How much of a climb?" someone asked.

"Well, that depends," Felix responded. "Inca style or Peruvian style?"

The crowd laughed. "Inca style," the man responded.

"5 minutes," Felix told him.

"And Peruvian style?" someone else asked.

"Oh, 25 minutes probably," Felix said, and we all laughed again.

We started to climb.  It didn't take me 25 minutes, but it certainly took me more than five.  As I made each turn, I grew more and more excited.  What would Machu Picchu look like?

To be continued...

The craziest 72 hours of my life: Miracles

They were nearing the train station.  The sun hadn't broken the eastern sky and its ominous mountains yet: it was dead winter in the southern hemisphere.  In fact, just four days earlier, the three travelers had seen the traditional Incan celebration of the Inca Raaimi, or winter solstice.  The parade had wound around the Plaza de Armas, the people in traditional clothing, and they just kept going, and going, and going....

"We are here," said the cabdriver, pulling to a stop at the train station.

"Thank you so much," said all three of the young men. They tipped the driver well.

"Enjoy," he said. "You will love it. It's incredible. It's like a miracle."

***********

A miracle.  I had needed a couple already, just to be here, just to be hearing these words.

In case you haven't figured it out, I was the young owner of the cell phone who was fluent in Spanish.  The young man underneath the blankets, battling with his digestive system, was my friend Adam. The other young man was my friend Cody.  We were on my sixth day in Cusco, and their seventh.

The genesis of this trip had been in 2005.  That was when I married that woman from Lima, Sonia, with whom I will celebrate 12 years of marriage in a few weeks.  Our plan for a honeymoon was an abbreviated trip to St. Louis that summer, then an extended trip to South America the following summer of 2006, when we would visit her family in Peru and my adopted family in Venezuela. 

Plans have a way of changing.  We spent the summer of 2006 caring for our newborn son, Niko.

Later on that year, Sonia's sister announced she would be marrying her longtime boyfriend, Jeremy, and that the ceremony would be held in Lima.  Sonia and I began making plans at once: the wedding would be on June 30.  We'd arrive ten days or so beforehand, see Peru, do the wedding, then take off for Venezuela a few days later. Niko would accompany us.  We cast a wide net for friends who wanted to travel; eventually, Cody and Adam took us up on it, knowing that there would be plenty of people to translate for them.

Plans have a way of changing.  For a variety of reasons, Jeremy and Wendoly would no longer marry in Lima, but here in Iowa.

Thus the first miracle, a minor one.  After much discussion, it was decided that I couldn't leave Cody and Adam in the lurch, having already bought non-refundable tickets.  I would leave with them as scheduled.  But could Sonia join us at a later date?  After much dealing with airlines, we got it worked out, and the result was even better for me personally: Sonia would join me on July 3; Cody and Adam would leave as planned; Sonia and I would spend an additional week in Peru before leaving for Venezuela; and Sonia's parents would watch Niko. All in all, I would be in South America nearly a month; I'd have my boys' trip AND a honeymoon. Perfection.

It all nearly collapsed at the last possible second, giving place to a second, more major miracle. Cody, Adam and I left for Chicago on June 21.  We left in the middle of the night and landed in Mexico City, where I experienced a manic episode.  I ran all around the airport, taking free shots of tequila at duty-free shops and taking in this major international hub. When we got ready to board the plane to Lima, my passport was missing in action. I was told, "You'll have to go back to Chicago."

What happened in the next 24 hours could easily fill its own blog post. Maybe "The craziest 24 hours of my life". Or "Being Illegal in Mexico City".  But somehow, someway, it worked out.  Cody and Adam left on that flight; they would go on to Cusco and do the best they could.  They arrived in Cusco on Friday morning.  The next morning, at 9:00, I knocked on their door at Hotel Suecia 2.

The days passed in a blur.  Partying on Saturday with some Europeans from Hotel Suecia 2 at Club Asia across the street.  Walking the steeply inclined streets.  A few local markets.  An overnight trip to Puno and the world's highest navigable lake, Lago Titicaca.  We arrived from Puno late Wednesday afternoon, got something to eat, and retired early.  We were leaving for Machu Picchu early the next morning.

*************

Daylight was breaking over the train platform as we boarded.  It was cold but clear and the train was filling with people from all over the world, except for Peru.  Peruvians have their own train, which costs quite a bit less money, and is reputedly not as nice.  Not that the train we were riding in was deluxe by any means: the seats weren't cushioned and didn't recline, and leg room was sparse.

But no matter: we weren't there for the accommodations.  We were to meet our van, S21, in Aguas Calientes, and train would take us there.  The seats were in groups of four, with two people facing two others.  Since we had purchased our tickets late, we were split up.  Cody and Adam sat together, and I was in the same car, but down the aisle a little ways.

Almost exactly at 6:30, the train lurched to a start.  We were leaving Cusco. I opened my breakfast, a Snickers bar that a vendor had been selling on the platform.  Across from me was another American, Roy, from Florida. He was a few years older than me and was accompanied by his girlfriend, a woman from Lima he had met online. They were both quite conservative but very nice; she was very affectionate, constantly hugging him and giving him pecks on the cheek and on the mouth.  I really missed Sonia right then.

As the train progressed, I finally understood a word I had heard many times before but never fully captured: switchback.  We were actually going down in altitude; Cusco is significantly higher up than Machu Picchu.  The mountains were too steep to just run down the rails, so the train descended for a while, then pulled up flat, then changed direction and continued descending.  As we progressed, vegetation, which we had left behind in Cusco, began to reappear, fledgling at first, gradually thickening and growing more lush. 

A mix of tiredness, boredom and amazement settled over me.  The scenery was incredible, but progress was slow, and Roy almost never shut up.  I pretty much knew his whole life story an hour into the trip, in particular his many struggles with women until he had met this wonderful Peruvian woman and how she had changed his life.  I struggled to stay awake and struggled to fall asleep simultaneously. 

At one point (probably many, but I remember this one in particular), the train came to a halt, and there were some indigenous girls, probably eight or ten years old, playing right outside the train on an ancient piece of farming machinery.  Some Portuguese guys, quite verbal (and obnoxious) in their own right, yelled out the window at them in broken Spanish, and took several pictures. The girls smiled shyly and continued playing.

This bothered me.  It was as if, to these guys, the girls were part of the scenery, another element of the exotic, another Incan wall to document for their travel blog. I could just see these blowhards flying back into Lisbon the next week and showing this picture to their privileged, elite friends and saying, "See, we saw it all in Peru: the mountains, the jungle, AND real, live, off-the-grid, poor Indians."

But I tried to withhold judgment; I didn't need that negative energy. We were almost to Aguas Calientes.

To be continued...

The craziest 72 hours of my life: Alarm in Hotel Suecia 2

The alarm went off at 5:00 AM, Thursday morning, June 28, 2007. It wasn't overly obtrusive, but it was enough to wake up the young man on the bed next to it, who then woke up his two companions. "Machu Picchu time, bitches," he said, still stretching underneath his three layers of blankets and two layers of clothing.  It got cold at night in Cusco, Peru, and they were starting to finally dress appropriately for it on their fifth night here.

He reached over and shut off the alarm, emanating from a small, cheap, flip phone he had rented at the airport in Lima five nights earlier, still half-asleep from the sleeping pills he had swallowed to get him through the flight from Mexico City.  It had turned out to be a good investment: $40 for the three weeks he would be in Peru.

"What time does that train leave?" said one of his companions, entering the bathroom.

"6:30.  We gotta get a cab, get our tickets and all that bullshit," said the cell phone owner from under his covers.

"We're gonna kick Machu Picchu's ass," said the other young man, also still in his bed.  More properly; Cusco was kicking his ass, or at least giving him a good fight: he was fighting the classic on-again, off-again battle with his digestive system that the international traveler must endure.  He had eaten only white rice, arroz blanco, and Cusqueña, a local beer, for several days now.

Twenty minutes later the three young men exited their hostel, Hotel Suecia 2, which charged them 24 dollars a night for a room with 4 single beds and a private bathroom, which only seemed to pump out cold water despite the hostel's promise they did, indeed, provide hot water for weary foreign tourists. They each carried a backpack and were dressed in layers; it would be warm in the Incan Valley where they were headed.  It was still dark, and the the temperature hovered just above freezing.  The streets were silent, although they hadn't been just an hour before, when the dance clubs were closing up shop.

They traipsed the block and a half down to the Plaza de Armas, the enormous square which was the cultural center of Cusco, where they promptly found a cabdriver willing to take them to the train station.  Travelers provided much of the economy in Cusco.

"You guys headed to Machu Picchu?" asked the cabdriver in the lilting Spanish of the Peruvian highlands.

"Yep," answered the owner of the cellphone, fluent in Spanish.  He did most of the talking, although the other two could get by if they needed to.

"You're gonna love it. Beautiful. All the tourists love it. Where you guys from?"

"The United States. Have you been to Machu Picchu?"

"Once. I took my kids about seven years ago.  I loved it.  Too expensive, though."

"Yeah, it's expensive," the young man agreed.  The trip in train, van, and guided tour was costing them around $140 each; not necessarily a ton when taking into account they were going to a major international tourist destination, but, as he did the math quickly in his head, incredibly expensive in terms of what the average Peruvian made per year.

"Where did you learn Spanish? You speak very well."

"Oh, thank you. Here and there. I lived in Venezuela for a while, and my wife is Peruvian."

"Oh, really? From here in Cusco?"

"No. Lima."

"Oh. The capital," the cabdriver said, obviously disappointed.  Cusqueños (men) and cusqueñas (women) (and yes, that's the same word as the brand of beer) are very proud of their city and state, and fiercely defend its status as the ancient capital of the Incas versus the capital city of Lima imposed upon them by the Spanish conquistadores. "Where is she?"

"I'm meeting her in Lima on Tuesday.  Her sister's getting married in the United States on Saturday."

"Ah, I see. A boys' trip."

The young man smiled. "Exactly. A boys' trip. For now, at least."

They were nearing the train station.  The sun hadn't broken the eastern sky and its ominous mountains yet: it was dead winter in the southern hemisphere.  In fact, just four days earlier, the three travelers had seen the traditional Incan celebration of the Inca Raaimi, or winter solstice.  The parade had wound around the Plaza de Armas, the people in traditional clothing, and they just kept going, and going, and going....

"We are here," said the cabdriver, pulling to a stop at the train station.

"Thank you so much," said all three of the young men. They tipped the driver well.

"Enjoy," he said. "You will love it. It's incredible. It's like a miracle."

To be continued....