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Published: April 12th 2007
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Rio Urubamba
A view from the south end of Aguas Calientes Hello my friends, I hope this entry finds you in good spirits and good health! I left you last in Patacancha on the evening of the tenth. On the morning of the eleventh we began our trek to Machu Picchu and back to civilization first evidenced by the dirt road on which we left Patacancha, not the hearding trails we had been following before. Of course the trip was beautiful but not in the rugged, untouched way that the world of Huacahuasi was. It is amazing what a road, or lack there of, can do to one´s sense of space - their ability to be connected to the familiar world that seems so far away when on a trail, the familiar world that sometimes seems more foreign than the high Andean Villages we walked through. Up high things made a certain amount of sense. The people spoke a traditional, non-romantic language and dressed in traditional ways because they had not been raped by conquerors. The people exist in time with the place they inhabit, not playing a tune with a different rhythm. And because they and their animals exist like this, so much more closely associated with the land and
the seasons and elements that make up their environment, their life makes more sense to me than life in large foreign cities. Somewhere deep inside of us, who have had to adapt to life in a civilization of rapid global communication, is a being that still understands how to exist in harmony with an environment. Being so high up and so far away from "it all" was unbelievably comforting.
"BEEP, BEEP!" A truck whizzed by uncomfortably close spraying dust into my eyes and ruining my moment of Zen... Oh well. As we continued down towards Ollantaytambo the road passed through more villages and at one point by a school with beautiful children running about. Most wore school uniforms but those students from traditional villages nearby were easily picked out. Suddenly, in a Quechuan chorus of laughter, the gates opened and all the children flooded onto the road and down to the stream with tooth brushes in hand. We watched and laughed as they splashed and teased and we spoke to some of the teachers who, similar to so many along the trail, Paull seemed to know.
We simply assumed that because he had guided the route for so
Machu Picchu from Huaynapicchu
Me and the star of the show, by this point I had already cried long and because he was from Ollantaytambo, that Paull knew a great many people. But as we passed a large wall painted with the name of a political candidate, urging people to vote for them on April ninth (last year) Paull turned and said, "Look, it´s me!" We laughed awkwardly because he made the remark in that humble way that leaves you wondering if the person is joking or if they are being honest. Seriously, what kind of guide would not want to impress their customers with facts like "I ran for provincial mayor!"? As it turns out he was not kidding which explained why he knew everyone. Amazing, our guide a real local star. As we continued on our way we began to see posters with Paull´s smiling face on them and I smiled back each time we passed. "Where are we eating lunch?" I asked. "At my mothers house," Paull smilingly replied. We laughed awkwardly again and were returned the same truthful smile as before. I could only think of how badly I smelled.
After another giant helping of food we said goodbye to our wonderful cooks and our last porter and boarded the train to Machu
Steps
The Inkas added flat, projecting rocks from the terraces for steps Picchu. As we descended into the cloud forest the foliage became dense and green like the tropics and the large windows on the sides and roof of the passenger car made views spectacular. My amazement split time between the forest above and around and the raging Rio Urubamba below. The river surged with power at the tail of the rainy season like a wild beast. It hurled itself into large granite pieces that had fallen cragged from the old mountains that had selfishly clutched them so long. The relentless siege softened their fractures into smooth boulders. Because it could not break free of the canyon cage that held it close the beast feasted on stone. Further along, while most gazed at ruins high in the mountains, I gazed below.
The next day we pulled ourselves from warm beds at 4:45 in the morning to meet in the hostel lobby for breakfast. In the thick fog that covered everything from the fourth floor of the buildings in Aguas Calientes to some indeterminate height above even the plants and the river seemed to sleep. We stumbled to buses for the last leg of our trek: Machu Picchu. As the sky slowly
became bright I wondered what I would see. Would I be inspired by the sight of one of the worlds most mysterious and secluded citadels? Would I be overrun with tourists from every part of the globe, moving in hoards among the ruins of such an amazing place? Would I be unimpressed because I had seen Machu Picchu everywhere in Peru, from campaign posters to airline ticket jackets? Or would everyone and everything distracting simply disappear when I gazed in amazement?
We entered the site, waiting in a short line with others willing to rise early to be at the ruins with as few people as possible. The trail ran smack into terraces and we turned doggedly to climb a steep stair to the top of the ruin. We reached the apex and Paull led us towards a famous Machu Picchu overlook. With each step we took, every boot heel click, the anticipation rose. We neared the edge and peered out onto...clouds...everywhere, the whole thing, every building stone and peak was veiled.
After nearly an hour of anticipation and little change in the cover we decided to walk in the ruins while Paull gave us some history of
Machu Picchu
Just a bit of the site the site. Though we had waited so long, few people had made their way down into the city and the clouds were beginning to clear. Every turn, view and doorway was now caressed by an eerie, wet fog that gave the deserted buildings a certain mystery, a certain quality of life, like at any moment we may step through a doorway and into the path of an ancient Inkan priest. It was like a movie but far better because I was there, walking in the fog of the most mysteriously mysterious history I could imagine. It was amazing.
After another hour and a half of touring I split from the group to make my way up to Huaynapicchu or "young peak" (the large mountain in the background of every famous Machu Picchu photo you will ever see) for another view. As I reached the summit of the extremely steep and difficult climb I was rewarded a thousand times over. The clouds had just lifted from the mountain and before me lay a spectacular view of the entire structure of Machu Picchu. It was amazing to see it with perspective, buildings perched on terraces placed with perilous confidence on the edge of thousand meter cliffs dropping virtually straight down to the river below. I sat on the lowest terrace of Huaynapicchu, mesmerized and alone with feet dangling over the river far below. I could think of no words, so I simply I cried.
Peace and love. Simon
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Stefan
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Amazing
You suck Simon, I'm so jealous right now. I'm outlining chapters about how to perfect a security interest in my 20 lb business law book. Thinking about you man, keep having fun buddy.