Rounding the pinacle

Machu Picchu. Land most recently inhabited by gringos worldwide. Formerly one of the last standings of Inca culture. A peoples, it turns out, who are not so far removed from my own spiritual awareness inherited of the cascading Yuba River and her granite bedrocks. Each of these pre columbian ruins are built primarily of granite. Wall of endless wall, staircase, castle- massive constrctions of this magestic stone. So unimpressed was I, at first.



We began our trek from the town Aguas Calientes, on a rainy morning, and spent two hours climbing above the beautiful River Urubamba upon stair after stair of ancient purpose. The journey was constantly interrupted by buses zooming past on the road, which cuts through the Andean jungle in dusty switchbacks of exhaust fumes. No wonder the sweet Quechua woman, Sabrina, at our Hospedaje Wayana Picchu, insited we should leave out at 4 am rain or shine. I wish I had taken her advice.



As we succeeded the final flight of stairs, we stumbled into a shopping haven of tourists, parking buses, jewelry store and front entrance to the park. Closing my mind to the dispicable circumstance of clashing our steep jungle journey to this lazier, privelaged class, I stampeded to check in. The ruins were overwraught with brightly clad touristas of every nationality. Pulsating tour groups sat at every wall, and the entire middle day was spent in frenzy of annoyingly loud people with a lot of bug spray and little known intelligence. Tour groups edged up on us just as I was about to compose an angelic shot of photography. Tour guides made an example of me by firmly instrcting to stay off the walls. What good is it to visit a ruin if you can not climb around on it? We saught refuge in an area of the park where they only allow 400 people per day. I was number 243 at about 9:45 AM.



We took a short trail past steep mountainside and found some unrecconstructed ruins. Laying there in the sun too long, mariposas floundering around us, birds dipping through the sky below us, and We, scanning the adjacent mountain peak, for lack of people, before we continued on to the temple of the Moon. After a hearty snack of crackers and avocado, we climed downwards, only to walk back up the steep main trail of exhasted touristas, decending out of breath and wantan with exhaustion. The spiraling staircase ascended far above the Macchu Picchu ruinas, high above the Mountain of our midday feast, and into the clouds. At the top a sign stated well over 2,000 meters, and it very well could have been that distance, since we left the Rio Urbamba earlier in the day.

Sweat dripped from our brows, dousing all vertigo veiws of the swirling valley below. One rock after another, small springs of water welling forth out of the earth, plants both familiar and new bursting from the craggs with bright colors of life and floral smells. At last, the familiar outlines of squared mountainside signified agricultural turf, and I flung my heavyily exhausted body onto the green grass, which far below made yummy meals for the llama and alpacha herds.



We trotted along crumbling cliff banks, snapping photographs with what remained of my batteries lifeline. Then I ran out of memory, so gave up the endeavor of charging batteries in our armpits, as we so often have to do. There were a couple of equally scraggly looking, most often blundering, and protrusely sweating males, who had paralleled our jounery uphill. With a bit of a visit before the final small ascent over large boulders to the cave shrine of La Luna, we discoverd that fates had crossed us far from our territories. These two tired, hard core travelers such as ourselves lived nowhere else but humble Humboldt County.

The day grew late, and we were forced to spiral back dowwards. A spiritual feast of high veiwed wonders below. Immense concentration on the steep staircase created a indelible sense of the hardships won on course to the top. Now a most tranquil, fleeting existence of facing habitual fear of height and dangerous circumstance of falling off the side a mountain, sustained in my mind. Then, I realised the true importance of this most significant site of interest. Machu Picchu was not solely an attraction to be gazed after, and speculated about ancient cultural daily habits. It was a living, mountain sized tribute to tierra spirits, and evidence of the earthly understanding of a Pre Christian peoples, who still connected and associated themseles with Mother Earth. This Mountain is an overlooked ancient altar. It was not demolished, for how could the Spaniards understand the significance of this place, without first comprehending the importance of natural ways of life. With all sacrifices, offerings, and pictorial- superficial characteristics unintact, this was an overlooked spiritual quest, and power source left behind. For anyone willing to look, Wayana Picchu holds secret to the most balanced and true form of living existance, the understanding of the trials of mortality and a tribute to the evolutionary circle of life.

I spent the remaining hours wandering among the village ruins, which were much more vacant now that the tour groups had bussed back to town. There were pikas, birds, lizards, moths and butterflies scurrying under, and over toppled rocks. As I, myself, climbed over a boulder, I found my foot unexpectedly and comfortably placed upon a ledge. Swinging my other foot over so that I was in sitting position, I realised this was one of many carved piedras, put to the double use of road cornerstone and resting place. In my mind I felt the smells, sounds, animation of a culture long past. It seemed playful, harmonious, creative, and furtile. The Incas, who possesed a most expansive knowledge of beauty and artistic forms were master carvers of the powerful granite, which was querried far below in the valley. It is unknown as to how strength was found to lift such bolders. Though, I suspect it had something to do with force of will, and ingeniuty of the labor force of creative minds.

Too soon did the park guards begin blowing their whistles. My palm lay flat against a large boulder which a wall had been built around, as I tried to close my mind to the coming evacuation. I stumbled to one side, then another. Whistles were blown at me in all directions. Disoriented- I didnt know my way out- I trodded along the maze of stone houses, peaceful animals, boulder piles-and peaked though windows. I was one of the last people out, and as the night was coming in cold to my fatigued body, we caught the last bus to town with the Humboldt boys and found ourselves an excellent tipica dinner, with salad bar and crazy adventure stories to share.

Incan roads

We set out for Machu Picchu by trail from a set of ruins just above Cusco. The walk to Qe ´npo was straight forward and short, and as we moved towards the fourth set of ruins our bags began feeling heavier. It was after we meandered away from these that we found ourselves content to be beating the tourist buses, and to rest whilst overlooking a vast landscape of hillsides, farmland, creek and ruins. ´Where are you going?´I asked Manuel. Then, I pointed towards some mossy piles of rocks in the distance. ´What does that look like to you?´Could be an Incan road he agreed. So, I picked up a stone for good luck, and we headed down the hillside, taking note of every surrounding in case we had to turn back- we didnt want to get lost from civilization forever.

It wasnt long before we came upon another set of ruins, large enough to be encouraging, and also some Quechua woman washing in the creek. They apparently didnt speak any Spanish, and after I had tried to make our intrusion to their territory known in as peaceful a way as possible (by sitting on the hillside above and yelping, ¨buenas tardes...¨with a smile) they scamperd up the bank with the jibberish of their own tongue.

We continued up the next hillside for another hour, enjoying the remote scenery and subtly decomposing ruins at our sides. Then, there was no more trail, except we could see trails stretching farther on over other several other hillsides. Barley able to make out the buses on the road in the distance (about 6 to 8 km away) we made note of the direction by position of the sun, a line of Eucalyptus trees bordering the road to Pisac, and the cleft between hills of the tallest Mountains in sight. Crossing a the creek again, overstepping huge salt rocks, then mounting our chosen cerro, we took separate directions to scout each side of the hill for signs of the Incan road we had been faithfully following. I, unfotunately, didnt get the side with a trail, but stumbled into many ruins covered with various form of thorny flora (which Manuel had a great veiw of from his trail on the other side of the Mountain). Following our separation was a series of shouting back and forth to one another, ¨Ive got a wall here, and trail¨ ¨Im in some thorny briars!¨ ¨There might be a trail to your left!?¨ ¨No, that is a cliff¨

Eventually, I made it back to Manuel´s side, and as we scaled the cliffside towards the Incan trail, I was quite out of breath due to the extreme elevation.

The road was long, and we were happily encouraged by a solitary set of ghost footprints that had formed in a recent rain. The prints advised us from ruin to ruin, whenever we were in doubt of our direction, then eventually we found ourselves in a small little peublo. The locals were friendly, smiled with curiosity, and a particular gentleman pointed us the right way when we professed ¨Pukapukara¨

More kilometers of farmland, many fiending dogs at our ankles, a Eucalyptus forest, a terriotorial bull, and a few more hills later we found ourselves at the ruins with only a barrier wall to discourage us.

We spent that night in Pisac after catching a combi from our 7th set of ruins just across the street and up another hill form Pukapukara.

Exhausted, we discovereed the Pisac ruinas the following morning, early, before other touristas had gotten their breakfasts. These ruins were mightily tall, with steep staircases, archways, cascadas, a maze of buildings overlooking the Urubamba river, and an abundance of pretty flowers. Upon returning to the busy market center of Pisac, we decided to rest another night before continuing on to Ollantaytamba today. There was a showing of A Clockwork Orange in a nearby cafe, Mullu, that I can only describe all its artwork, ambiance and menu as ´posh´.

Ollantaytambo would be a wonderful village. That is, if it wasn´t infested by tourism buses, groups, dingy people uninterested in culture, travelers at my every side, gift shops on every block, and pricy hostels on every other.

These steets here are all Incan, as well as the foundation of each and every building, a good four feet of ancient stone masonary as well. The most unique tribute to this town, however, is that they still use the Incan irrigation system positioned amidst the central roadways. The ruins tower above central square in the surrounding mountains, and I look forward to rising with the sun tomorrow, to seek the past once again.

Post Modern Pop Civilisation

So very tired of the city. Of course, Antigua is muy bonita; its aching ruins around every cuarto and the whisps of fleurs and weeds sprouting along rooflines and even surrounding telephone cables. However, this county is globalising like mad. Personas have too much pride in their cellular phones and it seems that dinero is at too high a motivation. While comfort and quality expectations seem to be at a higher level of awareness here than in the States, the popular culture of American cinema has brought its powerful influence over these people. They are shocked, with mouth agape, at my torn jeans, and when I make a modest offer for something at market there is resentful laughter howling over my gringo face. The grocers are stocked with foreign label packaged foods, and maize, bean, and other local produce is far too scarce for comfort. The attitude seems to be, what good is a gringo without a wallet full of $? Looking forward to my shuttle to Lake Atitlan in the morning. Going to take it easy and forget about this over civilised neuva atttitude of Post Modern Guatemala. Hopefully I´ll find some fruit on the arboles and keep my hands on the land.

On Sabado Manuel y Yo went on a trek. We survived. It was disheartening at first. So silly to think how victorious our venture became when the chicken buses are an everyday event for Guatemalans. We began our morning at 4 am when I awoke and tried to revel in a cold shower. We left the house in time to trek across town to the market in search of a bus headed to Chitentanga. We were going on a mad hunt for some ´lost´Mayan ruins. Our directions were to find a bus that traveled along the Pan American Hwy Norte. We wanted to get to Tecpan and from there cross the center square and look for a path that lead into the temperate jungle. It cost 4 Quetzales a peice to ride the bus, and we realized we only had 100 Q bills. So off I jumped from the bus in a haste to find some change. The bus started off as we bumped along for an hour and half with a man yelling out the side door, ¨Chichi! Chichi!¨jumping on and off on and off again. Somewhere along the way we discovered that our water had leaked all over my lap (Oh! Thats why my bag felt so cold). Squished 3 to a seat with personas carrying bundles of fresh picked fruit in baskets on their heads, warm wrapped breakfasts in bundles, plastic bags full of juice and and a straw, and questioning stares in our direction.
In Chitentanga we almost missed our transfer as a poor girl dropped her small orange-colored fruits all down the stairs of the bus and I wanted to help her pick them up but the bus suddenly emptied and the ¨Chichi! Chichi!¨gentelman pointed us to hurry in the direction of the bus going to Tecpan.
¨Tecpan? Tecpan?¨asks the driver over and over. He looked at us like, what are you silly gringos going there for? We thought, we are on to something good now. Not even the locals know why we want to go to Tecpan. Ah! Fantasies of a small village with maybe an authentic woven wrap for these chilly nights. And then a long quiet walk through wilderness and into an ancient land of peaceful peoples. Perhaps we´ll meet a Shaman to walk with us along the way and show us his knowledge of the local flora.... Heh.
The bus swerved in and out of stops and villages. From fifty miles per hour to zero for a pickup. There were few coherent stops, and mostly the bus just spotted people with looks of exhaustion and keeled over to the edge of the road. Then took off again at top speed. We were jerked from side to side, meshing into locals and feeling their basket propped against our shoulders. It almost felt like those roller coaster rides at Disney land as they let people off, on, off, on at a time.
As we pulled into Tecpan it seemed as though someone had built a world of concrete boxes plastered with advertisements for cellular phones, Quaker oatmeal, Diet Coke, and every other name brand stemming from American culture. As we climbed off the bus, stiff from three hours of being tossed around we could hear Oingo Boingo blasting from a nearby box-ad. It was so loud we walked in tempo the whole way across town. Locals coming out of their box-ads to see the gringos. Children stared in curiosity and soon we were alone...with seven small boys following us with machetes on their hips.
The road was dissapointingly paved. As we asked every local nearby, pointing to the word Iximchel in my notebook, and asking ¨Donde esta Ece-M-tel?¨with our horrible American accents and then still following the pavement. There was curiosity abroad. As we passed farmers on their rooftops I noticed them pull out their cell phones, one by one with a look of excitement and confusion at our sudden appearance in their funny little village. As we walked on and the farmlands became fewer I began to worry about the tribe of boys with machetes. Did they mean us harm? Fantastic paranoia set in. Were they waiting for us to get beyond the boundaries of town and then beat and rob us? Were the locals really part of some conspiracy gang, cellularly informing their neighbors at the jumping off point? So, I decided to make friends. I began joking with the boys and dancing around like a clown. They laughed! and Laughed! So enamoured they became with me and my silly name on their spanish tongue, they were not ever going to go away. So we caught the next truck with our thumbs and sped up the rest of the paved drive to Iximchel.
A nice picnic. Feeling victorious. Papaya and herb bread. There were cows grazing on the Mayan landscape that appeared to be a series of networking, stone-built sewage systems. There were also tall mounds of steeply inclining stairs and oak tree looming graciously at the top. Then we noticed it.
Children.
Not a few. Not a dozen. Not even a class size. There were hundreds coming. Every direction. Guatemalan children singing, dancing, playing, romping over every pillar and hillside. We tried to hike the steep decline down to the river below and every few paces had to stop to let children hike past. There was sweat dripping off their foreheads, and eyes bulged with the incline. Then there was the release of about 30 children a time down the hillside. Jumping out of the way to let them down, we finally gave in to our disappointing fate and left in half the time it took us to reach the hidden and remote Iximche.
The children knew better what to do at a place like that anyway. It is their country after all!