500 years ago Francisco Pizarro, the infamous illiterate Spaniard conquistador traveled, like me and Matt, accross the ithsmus of Panama and down to Peru. While Mittens and I found an empire of folks dedicated to the expoitation of tourists, Señor P ran into the Incas, a brand new (anthropologically speaking) confederation of indigenous peoples coerced into union. Although only about 100 years since the formation of the empire, the Incans had created a stone road system to rival that of the Romans, unified their subjects under a single language, and built rock palaces accross their barren land earning them the title of ¨history's finest stone masons¨ (I´m not sure who judges history's stone masons, but the tourist pamplet that stated this also put it in quotes, and I think it has a nice ring to it). Despite these accomplishments the Spanish soldiers' superior weapons, germs, and chicanary allowed them a hard-fought victory as the newest conquerors of the mineral-rich Andes.
In the subsequent half millenium the Caucausian leadership has been mixed to a light tan, but over 40% of Peruvians still consider themselves indigenous, and the language of the Inca is preserved along with much of their traditional dress, food, craft and agriculture. This makes for quite a different society from Panama, where several small indigenous tribes occupy a much smaller part of the national identity. For example, Quechua is spoken across the country far more than you might hear indiginous languages in Panama. And instead of the traditional heaping pile of white rice back in Panamania, Peruvian cuisine boasts many traditional Incan foods like quinoa, potatoes, and cuy (our furry friend the guinea pig, here a roasted rodent delicacy). In Panama chicha fuerte, the traditional farmers' corn beer is technically illegal and frowned on by most urban dwellers. However, the Cuzco variety is swilled from massive adobe cauldrons accross the city, a long stick with a red flag letting everyone know that a batch is brewed up. For just 15 cents per gi-normous mug, you too can get lit like an Incan!
Such was the background for our epic trek to Machu Picchu. In ancient times, incan stone staircases scaled the jagged peaks through jungle and barren mountaintops linking the towns of the empire, from bigger cities like Cuzco to hideouts like MP. Today, rails and roads have made the citadel accessible to the most immobile of tourists. Yet tempting fate, Mr. Rhody and myself shunned more conventional routes and chose the 8 day trek passing by the ruins of Choquequirao (Tourist for ¨the other Machu Picchu¨) en route to the Real Machu Picchu (Quechua for ¨giant tourist trap¨).
We were a motley crew: Matt, me, a Spaniard named Enrique, a flying Dutchwoman Rosali, our guide Franklin, our mule skinners Alberto and Nacho, 2 mules and 2 horses. (In case you are wondering what a mule skiner is, I will refer you, as Mateo reffered me, to that timeless classic ¨Blue Yodel No. 8¨by Jimmie Rodgers, aka the Mule Skinner Blues.) Between us we had speakers of English, French, Dutch, German, Portuguese, Quechua, and Basque. We all spoke Spanish, luckily, facilitating easy oral communication.
The hiking here is much different than in America. First off, you are not in a park or designated hiking area, but rather in someones farm through tiny towns in the middle of nowhere on slopes that a cow can barely stand up on. Second, the Andes are no rolling gentle hills. You´re either switchbacking up a cliff, switchbacking down, or hiking around the top of a peak as a shortcut. You´d be pressed to find a flat patch of land big enough to fit in a putting green. It's brutal. As you may have guessed, Incans were not aficionados of Bocce ball.
Although the Peruvian Andes are in the tropics, the altitudes vary so much that a single day´s accent can take you from a bug-infested jungle coffee plantation to a windswept potato patch where grass will barely grow. Most farms have irrigation systems to aid in drought times, and the hardscrabble ground must be plowed with yoked cattle and fertilized with natural manures. Nights in higher spots get mighty cold and the adobe houses are heated with the cooking fire on the ground. It is amazing to see how tough these farmers have it after being in Panama, where warmth, good soils and rain make it agricultural paridise - I can´t wait to get back to share pictures and stories with my machete-wielding pals in Palmas Bellas.
We wound through mountains and rivers and streams as we worked our way through the countryside. Though the scenery was indescribably beautiful, some of the finest moments were shared huddled around fires in the humble homes of campesinos on the route. We were given coffee and big smiles, sugarcane juice, firewood, and lots of advice. Most kitchens were shared with scurrying guinea pigs, regular pigs, dogs, cats, goats, sheep, and chickens. They wind through your legs as you sit there, eating all your crumbs and warming themselves by the fires. We would laugh with the people and they would always ask - when will you be back? And sadly we said with truth it was probably never.We had good times at night with the guide, porters, and other hikers. Soon
we discovered mule skinner Alberto had a penchant for a serious nip at the end of the day. His poison of choice was sugarcane moonshine he called Huari Fly, the most horrendous concoction I have ever seen a human willfully consume. No joke - this stuff makes pisco taste like a white wine spritzer. After we commented it was better for lighting the campfire than for drinking, we watched Alberto douse the fire and flames burst out wildly. Some interesting cultural interchange took place as we passed our $5 bottle of Seagrams ¨Blender's Pride¨whiskey around (which is, by the way, not much to be Proud of). Muleskinner A soon abandoned his bottle for ours, and we were forced to cut him off, at which point he burst into a rousing rendition of the MuleSkinner blues, with Nacho on banjo and backup vocals, much to everyone's surprise.
we discovered mule skinner Alberto had a penchant for a serious nip at the end of the day. His poison of choice was sugarcane moonshine he called Huari Fly, the most horrendous concoction I have ever seen a human willfully consume. No joke - this stuff makes pisco taste like a white wine spritzer. After we commented it was better for lighting the campfire than for drinking, we watched Alberto douse the fire and flames burst out wildly. Some interesting cultural interchange took place as we passed our $5 bottle of Seagrams ¨Blender's Pride¨whiskey around (which is, by the way, not much to be Proud of). Muleskinner A soon abandoned his bottle for ours, and we were forced to cut him off, at which point he burst into a rousing rendition of the MuleSkinner blues, with Nacho on banjo and backup vocals, much to everyone's surprise.
On Day 2 we were at Choquequirau and Day 8 at Machu Picchu. Both are phenomonal examples of restored Incan stonework that were never found by the Spaniards, but were abandoned as the invasion put the squeeze on the Inca. They are self-contained cities with houses, weaving centers, temples, plazas, agricultural terraces and acueducts. Wandering around them, one gets the somewhat eerie sense of the people that must have lived there, planting corn and chiseling boulders and worshipping the sun, water, and mountains. Although Choquequirau is not as extensive as Machu Picchu, we had the place to ourselves on a perfect afternoon, and took in views off of 2000 foot drops down to the River Apurimac, a glaciar-fed stream that travels more than 5000 miles before draining into the Amazon in Brazil. It is much cheaper and calmer than Machu Picchu, and I would reccommend it to anyone who comes this way - it's well worth the hike to get there.On Day 8 we awoke at 4am to leave our railroad-side hostal, MANDOR, and hike up to Machu Picchu. Being
in damn good shape after scaling the Andes for 8 days, Matt and I breezed past the lightweight tourists only to find it was closed at the top and we had to wait another hour. Smooth. Even then, upon paying the $40 entry fee, the place was totally shrouded in mist. Matt and I were so bummed that we were reduced to childish fake-yoga, llama-herding, and making loud wiseass tourist comments. However, by noon the day had cleared, and we started making more positive wiseass comments as we took in the classic postcard views and eavesdropped on tours in broken English. After a brief nap in the ruins we headed down, confident that despite being a rip-off, we were happy we came.
in damn good shape after scaling the Andes for 8 days, Matt and I breezed past the lightweight tourists only to find it was closed at the top and we had to wait another hour. Smooth. Even then, upon paying the $40 entry fee, the place was totally shrouded in mist. Matt and I were so bummed that we were reduced to childish fake-yoga, llama-herding, and making loud wiseass tourist comments. However, by noon the day had cleared, and we started making more positive wiseass comments as we took in the classic postcard views and eavesdropped on tours in broken English. After a brief nap in the ruins we headed down, confident that despite being a rip-off, we were happy we came.We took the roundabout route back to Cuzco, stopping for a soak in some hot springs before enduring 8 hours on a bumpy dirt road in a Chevy URVAN. We had much to toast before sleeping like babies back in our hostal. After doing nothing for a few days in Cuzco, Matt and I parted ways, he heading back to Wisconsin to tend the fire and make Swedish pancakes, I back to lovely Panama to continue milking the government cow and playing with PVC in Darien. I'm currently in Lima awaiting my flight information, but am hoping to make it back to Chepo for Christmas.
Thats it for now...Happy Holidays and hasta pronto.
