Hola Familia y Amigos
So there we were, at Puerto Maldonado’s small airport, in line for 45 minutes at the gate for our flight back to Cusco, when a speedily delivered loudspeaker message, in Spanish, sent all the Peruvians running to the ticket counter. The flight was now cancelled, our guide had left us after we were checked in, no other flights were available and we were scheduled to continue our excursion the next day, leaving early in the morning to start our drive into the Sacred Valley. Desperation was setting in when ‘Carlos’ appeared on the scene, apparently sent by William, having learned of the cancellation, knowing that Carlos’ career as a guide could be of immense help to us. Without a flight option, we were presented with a 10 hour commercial bus trip arriving at 5 a.m. Anxious to get to Cusco sooner than later, we leaped at his other option, a private 8 passenger van which he said would take only 5-6 hours, leaving in the next hour. Our weary minds never stopped to ask why the van could do this much quicker (we may have been imagining a bus making many stops along the way where, ironically, there aren’t many). The bus would have cost $12/person, while the van was $15/person and would get us there faster. We were introduced to Wilbur, our driver, after paying Carlos 1200 Nuevo Soles for all 4 couples (another stranded couple had joined us) and off we went around 4 p.m. When we asked our driver about the length of this trip, we now heard “8 or 9 hours” for the 300 miles. Sadly, like the proverbial frog crossing the river on the back of the scorpion, we were now committed, just ending better for us than the frog!
Fortunately, the sinuous road back to Cusco at least was paved, with 2 full lanes, one in each direction, and only periodic guard rails. Marilyn was sitting up front next to Wilbur, I was in the very back. After 5 or 6 hours, night had fallen and we noticed the vehicle drifting. Wilbur’s high beams had been on continuously, never acknowledging the flashing oncoming headlights begging him to lower his, and I had seen his face in the rear view mirror, accentuated by the headlights behind us, reflecting Wilbur’s barely open eyes. Putting these together, we asked Marilyn if he was falling asleep. She commenced engaging him in conversation, using her command of Spanish. He was not acknowledging being tired or willing to let someone else drive. Communities were few and far between, so evacuating the van with all our luggage seemed overwhelming. And then what? So we crossed our fingers, kept feeding him Coca in all forms, opening all the windows to let in the bitingly cold Andean air, banging on the metal sides of the van, clapping our hands, feeding him coffee at our pit stops, breaking into song, singing along with his 80’s music sound track (using our own lyrics, references to ‘not wanting to end up over the guard rail’ and the like).
This went on for at least 5 hours. Upon reaching the outskirts of Cusco another oncoming vehicle flashed his bright lights, with no response on Wilbur’s part, leading to the driver coming straight at us. That was the final straw, screaming at him to pull over before we all suffer terrible consequences. He pulled over and then we found out Wilbur had never been to Cusco and had no idea how to get us to our hotel at 2 a.m. Fortunately, he found a taxi driver who knew and we proceeded to follow him, alive and frazzled, arriving around 3 a.m., 11 hours after our start and only 2 hours earlier than the commercial bus. However, we would have missed one terrifying, adrenaline-producing Halloween night, a tale told only because we survived to tell it. I have no doubt had the same business occurred on a single lane, guard-rail-free, sinuous gravel road (a la Cusco-to-Manu), we would not have survived.
We forced a late start the next day, November 1, Dia de Los Vivos, ironically (day of the living). We were back with Ruben who had squired us around our first day in Cusco. Our drive would have us descending 2,000 feet down into the Sacred Valley, passing a crowd of onlookers at the edge of a sheer drop off, where a car had gone off the road, a reminder of our luck at surviving last night. Looking up as we drove, the snow-capped Urubamba Mountains, looking down, the town of Pisaq, viewing a line of men in their red garb, music emanating from their conch shells, on their way to the Sunday market.
Ruben would share many stories of Peru history, letting us know that it was the Creolian Blacks who ‘invented’ Pisco, the Peruvian Brandy from which Pisco Sours are concocted; these natives used to have cat BBQ’s, cooking cats owned by the Spaniards (passive aggressiveness of a sort); and of course, last night, we had missed all the Creole music and local festivities of Halloween. A surprising factoid was that the Inca Empire lasted only 100 years, commencing in 1438. He also shared with us the system of trails throughout the Inca Empire, 45,000 in all, with 3 different types: one each for the Army, Pilgrims and General Population. He broadened history to include the antipathy felt toward Chile, because of their invasion of Peru in what is called the War of the Pacific, 1879-1883, where, according to Ruben, more damage and pillaging was done in 6 months than in 300 years of Spanish rule!
We spent the day around Pisaq, with their adobe dwellings a fresh change from the old wooden structures of the frontier towns along the Madre de Rios. After lunch we drove to the nearby ruins outside of town, passing by long poles aslant outside of some private dwellings, with red sagging bags at the top, denoting where the local corn beer, fermented Chicha de Jora, could be purchased. We didn’t stop for any, nor did we stop at any of the numerous Cuy (roasted guinea pig) stands. Arriving at the ruins, we traversed the hillside, looking across to burial holes cut into the red stone walls, some 13,000 of them, passing a local just off the trail, facing the walls, playing a Peruvian flute with his haunting melody echoing over the river and valley below.
We spent the late afternoon at the Sunday market, the square hosting stalls set up with their temporary awnings, resplendent with fresh vegetables, meats, fruits, clothing items and, of course, touristy trinkets. Two local girls in their traditional dress, holding a baby goat in their arms, presented themselves for a photo op, which we could not turn down, giving them a few Soles (to feed the goat, of course). We then drove to the nearby town of Ollantaytambo (9,150 feet elevation) at the other end of the valley, alongside the Urubamba River, where we would spend the next two nights at the beautiful Sol y Luna, the grounds beautifully appointed and well-manicured, many purple flowered Jacaranda trees, cascading multi-colored bougainvillea, Paso Fino horses who perform their natural ambling gait on the grounds at lunch time, topped off by our luxurious accommodations (a real contrast to our jungle dwellings!) and the artistically appointed restaurants on the premises. We were owed this decadency by now!!!
After a sumptuous buffet breakfast the next morning, we toured the town square, winding our way through the massive indoor market, where we encountered a black Peruvian Hairless, the ugliest dog ever! It was wrestling with a bone in front of food stalls, not a dog one would feel compelled to pet. Ruben regaled us with how nothing is wasted from the animals that are eaten, e.g., coagulated chicken blood is mixed with herbs and onions to make sausage; fat is hung, dried and used for soup flavoring. Our hiking for the day was up the Patacancha Valley, first stopping at an archaeological complex at Pumamarca (named so because of pumas feasting on llamas), with tourists meditating on the grass, barefoot, seemingly having been transported from America’s 60’s spiritual revolution. We sat for a while as Ruben told us the background on the town of Ollantaytambo where we were staying. ‘Ollanta’ was the name of a commoner warrior who loved a princess, the daughter of the great Pachacutec. This match was not appreciated and the princess, Cusi Coyllur, was banished to the Convent of the Virgins of the Sun for a period of time, all ending well with the lovers being reunited. ‘Tambo’ is the word for Incan structures used for food storage.
On the mountainsides, Ruben would point out these storage structures that blended in so well with the mountain coloring, they had gone unnoticed by us until directed to them. Our hike took us alongside fresh, cold mountain runoff flowing through aqueduct-like formations. This day Ruben showed us many plants and their medicinal qualities, e.g., Muna, an Andean mint which repels pests and parasites.
This led to an interesting story Ruben shared with us when asked about the practice of medicine. Six years ago, a friend of his was diagnosed with an abdominal tumor, giving him six months to live. The two of them decided to seek help. Packing supplies and taking a black burro to ‘protect’ them, they journeyed into the mountains to find an Alto Misayoc, the highest rank of Andean Shamanism. After four days, they stumbled into a cave where they were greeted by a shadowy character, stating, ominously, “I’ve been waiting for you”, sending chills down Ruben’s spine, wondering what was going to happen to them in the depths of this cave. According to Ruben, this shaman, holding powers from being struck by lightning, pierced his friend’s abdomen with his fingers, removing the tumor, applying herbs and mud at the entry site, sending them off with teas and instruction. His friend is alive to this day. I’m not sure what the two scientists in our group thought, since it was never discussed later; I tended to not discount it’s veracity since there are things that cannot be easily explained in this world. Nonetheless, it made for an interesting moment on this hike!
We descended from our hike at 11,100 feet, passing through Choquecancha (translating as bright gold tiers), an ancient terraced complex, reveling in the surrounding mountains, the lush Urubamba Valley below, on a beautiful sunny day, truly a wonderful slice of Peru. Espying a bull ring on our descent and querying Ruben, we were told about the Incan approach to this Spanish-induced sport, which included elaborate ways of capturing Condors who would then be tied to the back of the bull, flapping their gigantic wings, digging their claws into the bull, drawing blood. Eventually, the Condor would be released, the bull slain. This was the Incan version of a bullfight, depicting the indigenous people triumphing over the colonial influence of the Spaniards...The bull (Spaniard) dies; the Condor (Incan Empire) lives! What tales told, information gleaned and experiences endured during these four days!! Next will be day hiking the Inka Express Trail, a morning at Machu Picchu and our final day in Peru with a lunch in Lima at one of 2015’s 50 best dining venues in the world.
Hasta Luego,
Stan & Maggie