An Incan Adventure

Normally, an airline losing two extra grande cameo duffel bags after a lengthy stop in only one city, would likely send me over the edge of any semblance of human composure. But my surprising attitude was a good omen of the trip to come, and quite a relief for my lovely wife. As I soared to over 200 feet on a paraglider above the hand tiled murals that line Lovers Park in Miraflores, the waves of the turquoise Pacific washing against the beach far below, my whole disposition regarding the adventure to come had changed. Those things we had brought that had once gave our mission here so much order and instruction shrank and faded from my mind like the hundreds of tourists and residents of Lima who stood on the sidewalks, gazing up to watch the flights. So started what was to be both a triumph over many challenges and an amazing journey through the cities, mountains, lakes, and desert-like plateaus of Central Peru and the Andean Highlands. The excitement began straight after arriving at Jorge Chavez International in the backseat of a 1980s Peugout that nearly struck or ran over perhaps 50 or more varied objects, pedestrians, and other vehicles as four proper lanes of Peruvian street became swollen to seven or eight with hordes of other highly aggressive drivers diving between and around each other as our poor taxi fought its way at reckless speed to the Plaza de Armas. After reapplying a generous helping of antiperspirant [smartly packed in our carryon], we proceeded to the nearly ancient and overtly opulently Cathedral of Santo Domingo. Our Spanish may have been totally lacking but we both were pretty sure that the word ''mass'' or ''service'', or making little signs of prayer and devotion, would translate well in either language between the cab driver and myself, but none the less he seemed aloof and confused when pressed as to what time church might start. Yet as luck would have it we arrived right on time. The priests conducted their Saturday Mass in Spanish, the tradition and ceremony [not to mention incredible choir and golden fixtures] employed by the laity made me shudder and tremble to the point where I was fighting back a great urge to weep at the beauty and grandeur of it all. It is very much a service deeply wrought in ancient Catholic rites that has changed little since the Spanish had first built the ornate and overwhelming cathedral where today's mass was currently being held. After the service concluded, my sense of spiritual well-being and optimism was almost shattered by cat calls and whistle, the words ''Gringo, Gringo, Gringo'' being whispered behind my back. Preparing for confrontation I whipped around only to find the twenty or so school children of Santimos des Jesus giggling and squeaking with laughter. I was immediately and completely disarmed of any ill feelings that had previously surface. Wherever they were visiting Lima from there must not have been many gringos passing through their village. After posing for several cell phone photos [and a few of our own] with them and the sweet little nun who was their charge, we all walked together to the second stop on their trip, and coincidentally ours as well, to see the catacombs at the Church de San Francisco. The mountainous, corkscrewing arrangements of bones and skulls lost their most terrifying aspects as the children ran from corridor to corridor, asking us a millions questions and calling out ''Tomas, Tomas'' as a smiling face would duck behind a pillar. It truly was sad to part ways and see them leave, as a happier, carefree, and well-mannered group of Catholic school children was so welcoming; and also a wholly alien concept to me when compared to my tutelage under the LaSallian Brothers in Pittsburgh Pennsylvania. It was a group of kids we were quick to miss but sure to remember fondly. We ran our fingertips along the rainbow mosaics at the Parque del Amore, to coin it romantic would be a huge understatement. Watching the Pacific crash upon the pebble beach far below the cliffs exuded a joyful magic that truly elevated the occasion. A young girl strolled around the central statue, wearing a white dress, her family in their finest, all celebrating her first Holy Communion as towering waves carrying several dozen surfers roared and tumbled to the shores amidst lovers lounging in the park beneath the shadow of two cement giants wrapped in an eternal embrace. All this together awakened a tenderness in both of us like we had just been married all over again, but that was to be for tomorrow. And yes, much to our relief, later that evening the staff at Jorge International did produce our bags.

Lima is a beautiful and vibrant city but escaping the crowds for the highlands of Cuzco was a change we were very much looking forward to. Upon arriving at the small airport which sat nestled between the Andean mountains, we were relieved to find our luggage waiting patiently at the baggage claim and more relieved to find our guide, Juan Samanez, waiting for us at the airport exit. Juan was a tall man with a friendly face, a strong handshake, and an epic mustache, he was always more than genial and patient with us but when it came to dealing with his own countrymen he commanded an obvious respect, definitely what the locals would refer to as a mucho hombre. This was very much demonstrated as he lead us to meet another man called Carlos, the organizer of our Incan vow renewal. Carlos seemed like a nice enough muchaco but obviously Juan had some stern words for him regarding our safekeeping while under his care. We all piled into a van together to pick up our Indian shaman and procure the necessary ingredients for the ceremony from the central market. The main market in Cuzco was incredible, fresh fruits and vegetables (many of which we had never even knew existed) lined the aisle, piled high atop each other in great heaps. Textiles of local design and craftsmanship were stacked neatly to chest height creating a cascade of colors and textures. Meat vendors hung their extremely fresh cuts of cow, alpaca, lama, guinea pigs, and chicken to dry and cure next to a vast assortment of tripe, tongue, and hearts. Over a hundred different kinds of corn and maize spilled from baskets onto the ground with deep, intense shades of blue, red, and gold, some with kernels the size of your thumb. After supplying ourselves with a great variety of sundry goods such as wine, rocks and minerals, ropes, coca leaves, flowers etc. it was all wrapped in a great blanket and carried by the Shaman along the ancient cobblestone roads to a clearing high above the city. Through the pines we could hear the faint notes of the Peruvian flute wafting from a festival taking place on the opposite side of the mountain. The Incan Priest began by starting a small campfire and cleansing our beings with sage and some kind of very strong alcohol, almost like lilac vegetal. We were told to inhale deeply of these things to purify our souls in hopes that they might be more easily bound together. The priest called upon the spirits of the puma, snake, and condor, chanting, singing, and swaying for hours as an offering was constructed of flowers, minerals, gems, and coca. The shaman then bound our heads and neck together with a myriad of colored cords as an ereathral pulse shook and consumed us to our very cores. We rose after several hours with a great sense of peace and love, whatever doubts we had beforehand regarding the legitimacy of this venture were, on all accounts, completely dispelled. One day, hopefully in the far away future, upon leaving this earth we may very well find that the ancient magic that permeates through this incredible country has had its desired effect. We were happy to see Juan again after we had descended the mountain to tour the Convento de Santo Domingo Del Cusco, built atop the ruins of the Incan temple of Qorikancha. Like many Incan sites we would tour on our journey, the Spanish had constructed a cathedral atop the interlocking stone work of the Incan Masons. It was ironic and somewhat satisfying to consistently find that, in most places, four centuries of earthquakes and erosion had toppled or destroyed the Spanish structures but that the ancient stone work of the Indios had only grown stronger as the megalithic boulders settled. To add to the ambiance of the temple were the ''Inca kids'' who dressed in their traditional garb and clutched baby lambs or lamas. Unbeknownst to us at the time, they were ignoring their studies to make quick money selling photo opps. to tourists. Me Esposa and I work in the field of criminal law and certainly do not condone the delinquency of minors but we couldn't resist the urge to pose with these adorable locals and engage in playful negotiations for the appropriate price of a photo. ''Twenty Soles [roughly $7 in USD] por favor,'' for the privilege, we would laugh ''No, no, no, too much'', ''Si, si, twenty soles'' as one youth would inform us that ten was for him and ten was for his llama. Satisfaction for both parties involved was finally reached after negotiating a sum of five soles and a handful of lollipops for the precocious nino.

Spectacular isn't a big enough word to describe rafting down the Urubamba River. Braced on all sides by the dry and dusty peaks of the Andes and lined by the ancient walls and fortresses of the Incas, the swift current carried our raft through the rapids with amazing speed. Upon my inquiry regarding the danger rating of the white water we encountered, on a scale of one to five, I was concerned to hear our guide reply that in the rainy season the Urubamba River is rated as a six which I could only assume that by South American standards meant certain death. Our leader, Juan, navigated the rapids with the experience of a seasoned whitewater guide and kept us well positioned against the perils of the fearsome river. Ironically enough he was the only amigo in the boat that was ever in danger of falling out as he concerned himself more with our safety than his own as we hucked a waterfall that measure over a meter. His small misfortune was especially hilarious as he had just concluded several stories wherein his wards had fallen overboard only to be lugged back into the boat as their clothes were swept away. We were roaring with laughter as we chided him before pulling him into the raft about better having his swim trunks still on. After perhaps five miles we finally arrived at our destination, a small family run restaurant by the banks of the Urubamba, where we were greeted with a much appreciated home cooked lunch which we quickly devoured. We then began our journey by van and navigated several perilous roads and bridges [which, in our estimation, were highly suspect] and over mountain passes that had our nails embedded deep into the armrests. Needless to say, renting a vehicle and trying to navigate the ''highways'' of Peru on one's own is highly unadvised. At the time I thought surely the grandeur of the Urubamba with its golden lining of ancient roads and forts could surely not be matched, at least not during one 24 hours period, but Peru Country is surely full of surprises and the ancient city at Ollantaytambo was no exception. Upon arriving at Ollantaytambo, the grandeur and scale of these ruins steals one breath away faster than any high altitude climb we had experienced thus far and is only to be rivaled by Machu Picchu itself. We explored these ruins with mouths agape as Juan described the miraculous feat of transferring the stones from one mountain, across the Urubamba, to the other. Not only was the physical feat of moving the stones beyond comprehension but the fitting and smoothing of the massive boulders into perfect keystones and pillars gave us a newfound respect for what was once thought to be a wild and savage culture. Juan told us of the various astrological achievements and advanced irrigation techniques employed at the site, still evidenced by the small canals that ran through the streets and viewing stones that lined the observatory.

A good night's rest in a beautiful little hotel that overlooked the ruins was just the respite that we needed. After waking early to avoid being caught by the striking villages that would soon block the roads with rocks, cactus, and felled trees, we backtracked to a family run textile ''factory'' in the sleepy little village of Chinchero. Our host family was warm and inviting, especially in light of our early arrival, and cheerfully cooked us a simple yet filling breakfast and then gave us a demonstration of the laborious and painstaking work that goes into creating the garments and fabrics, each having a unique and ornate design particular to each family. Because of the strike the village seemed almost abandoned if not for the shouts and squeals of the local children who had to good fortune to have the day off from class. After a leisurely stroll around a smaller archeological site we proceeded to gather our bikes and start our ride down the mountain and through the Sacred Valley to the still waters of Lake Piuray and our first campsite at Cuper Alto. We rode along the shores of this imposing body of water whose mirror-like surface perfectly reflected our progress right down to the rotating spokes of our wheels. As we cycled towards the village the windows on the surrounding homes would suddenly fly open with the grinning faces of children who would chant and sing in their native tongue ''look at the bikers, look at the bikers''. Needless to say the beauty of Lake Piuray was only accentuated by our unadulterated insight into the simple and gentle lives of the people who reside in the Sacred Valley, it was far and few between who did not greet us with a smile and a friendly ''Buenos Dias''. As wonderful and fulfilling as this experience was, our legs and bodies were quite relieved to find a warm meal and quiet siesta waiting for us at a local homestead overlooking the lake and the farmland that reached almost to the foothills of the Andes.

The next morning at Tauca village we were awoken to a cacophony of donkeys braying, pack horses whinnying and calling out to one another, and a lazy rooster waking well beyond sunrise. A hearty breakfast was provided by our team and we were treated to an amusing display between an extremely stubborn mule and one of our horsemen. The hot meal was greatly appreciated and much needed as we began our ascent to the Tauca Pass at almost 15,000 feet. At two and a half miles above sea level our lungs began to burn and strain to absorb the oxygen as the air became thinner and thinner. We had previously fashioned ourselves as experienced and well-seasoned hikers, I had, at one point before the trip, even gone so far as to scoff at the altitude warnings and stories we heard. But now we wheezed and gasped to fill our lungs and fought, in vain, against the pain that slowly spread from our legs to our very brain. We thought ''surely we're making a journey few could endure'' and bravado started to fill our hearts as the pass became visible in the distance, flanked by the highest tips of the Andes. That was until, out of nowhere, a small school boy appeared at our flank, skipping and lightly jogging up the trail. He easily passed us on his journey to Huchuy Cusco and the Estudiante Dios [Student's Day] celebration, and left both our small party and our pride in the dust. Our spirits were soon encouraged as we were pleasantly distracted by two little shepherd girls calling out across the trail from the mountain side ''Buenos Dios, como se llamo, como se llamo!'' We sat for a much needed rest as we began a casual conversation with our new amigas, Melissa and Elliana. The children of this country are all extremely endearing and adorable but these two especially, with their raven black hair and caramel faces, their round little checks lightly flecked with dust from the trail. They both were more than grateful as we showered them with candies, jelly bracelets, and assorted toys. The Tauca Pass grew closer as our we rose in altitude coming upon a small mountain lake of bright blue water that looked slightly out of place at 14,000 feet, straddled by the Andean peaks. It was a welcome sight and highly anticipated because, as the saying goes, it was all downhill from here. Standing atop the Andes at almost 15,000 feet was a view unrivaled in any of our excursions to date, and the knowledge that the next four miles would be spent walking downhill invigorated our souls and renewed our spirits, although, unbeknownst to us, would completely deplete our knees. We continued to follow the narrow trail down the northern side of the mountain that now was lined by ancient walls and cascades of flowing water. We arrived swiftly at our camp atop the ruins of Huchuy Cusco where a hot plate of fried chicken and saffron rice awaited a gruesome fate with our ravished stomachs. An overwhelming sense of accomplishment and achievement enveloped us as we fell asleep to the murmurs and chuckles of our cooks and porters as somewhere in the distance a radio played a soft song with pan flutes and classical guitar.

I liken the train ride to Machu Picchu with one of my favorite children's books The Polar Express wherein a small select group of children are hustled out of their homes late in the night by an old tyme train on a trip to the North Pole to meet Santa Claus. The luxury and appearance of the quaint, old fashioned locomotive to Aguas Calientes was just as grandiose as the one in the story and the excitement among the passengers was extreme and palpable; we might as well have been journeying to see Old Saint Nick himself. After a much needed rest [and shower] in the beautiful accommodations in downtown Aguas Calientes, we hurried to catch an early bus that would take us up the massive switchback ''road'', through the jungle, to the ancient mountain city of Machu Picchu. The ride up was an adventure much onto itself [making our previous drives in Ireland seem tame and safe] with only what seemed like inches between passing buses as we climbed thousands of feet above the town, with a sheer drop to the valley below. Our guide Juan, ever knowledgeable, helped us to bypass the cue and showed us a little used entryway and, as we rounded the corner, the view of the city with varied sunbeams breaking through the mist, was an image of unimaginable grandeur and beauty. The size and scale of this triumph of human innovation was not done justice by any photograph or article that our previous investigation of the trip had uncovered. Houses, temples, roads, fountains, it was a maze and a great expanse that captured our imagination, one that easily could have provoked a lifetime of study and exploration. Terraces and stone outcroppings line the mountain on all sides, flushed by houses and the sleeping chambers utilized by the domineering Incan army. An entire mountain covered by a scheme of construction that was both grand and overwhelming but somehow also harmonious with the rolling peaks of this hidden sanctuary. Sidewalks and stairs abound, some narrow and treacherous, others wide and well-worn by the thousands of Incans who used to live, work, love and die high amongst the cloud forest. Juan, perpetually skeptical, expressed disappointment at those who chose to ignore the architectural and historical aspects of the site and only honed in on its possible mystical significance as they hugged and whispered to boulders or knelt in the grassy terraces. Yet for all our light hearted fun at their expense, it was undeniable that a certain energy and presence surrounded the astronomical observatories and stone temples that lay scattered upon the grounds. Rounding a narrow corner we came upon the Condor Rock, the most revered Incan symbol, lying in wait, its granite wings cast high into the mist. The Sun Temple with its perfectly aligned windows and altars caused the hair on our arms and necks to rise as Juan described, in detail, the various rites and ceremonies that took place right beneath our feet. My mind again went back to those beautiful Incan children in Cuzco and I know that the spirit of this place and these ancient people was still alive and well, even thriving, within the hearts of every Peruvian.

The night before in Aguas Calientes, we had drunken heartily to both celebrate and mourn the loss of our friend Juan who had to return to Cusco to monitor the upcoming elections. It was a moment we both dreaded as we couldnt imagine our time in Peru without him. In the short while we had together he had become a friend and companion, a person we had trusted completely and implicitly. Always we would look back fondly on the many evenings spent drinking and laughing at his incredible stories; New Age hippies running naked and wild in the jungle, of the many close calls he had encountered as he explored the Andes with organizations such as National Geographic or the British Army, the dangers he faced as he swam the Amazon or was chided by his amigo into poking an anaconda. So that morning we said our goodbyes, I had made a gift of my new Bowie knife to him (after hearing his of his many adventures I knew he needed it more than I) and boarded the bus heading south to a new phase of our journey, the Andean highlands. The bus ride from Cuzco to Puno consisted of an eight hour climb to 14,000 feet, to the roof of South America herself. Rolling plains and snowcapped peaks bordered us on all sides as herds of Alpaca and Llamas drank from the one lone river where flocks of flamingos fished and pruned their strikingly pink feathers. The culture of this region varied greatly with that of the predominantly Incan North. Stopping at a local museum we saw ceremonial statutes depicting child sacrifice and animal worship ironically near one of the most famous Peruvian churches with gold flecked reliefs of great artistic talent. We braked in a remote village where a wedding celebration was in full swing upon several adjoining rooftops and were struck at the simplicity of a woman keeping close watch on her child as he playfully chased a balloon down an alleyway, a scene that could have played out anywhere around the world.

We woke the next morning after a much needed night's sleep to begin our boat trip to the Uros Floating Islands. Boarding a craft that was obscenely large and well equipped for our small crew of five, we glided swiftly and quietly through the water as we lounge on the top deck, listening to the waves lap against the side and basking in the warm Peruvian sun. The Uros Floating Islands were a spectacle that is unrivaled anywhere in the world. A whole village built of individual thatch huts on a small plot of reeds that floated several miles from shore in Lake Titicaca. Underneath the turquoise waters of Titicaca, one could see that each plot was several feet thick and was tied to a central location by large ropes that connected to an anchor somewhere in the dark blue depths of the lake. Emerging from inside the hut we were warmly greeted by a woman who described herself as La Presidenta, the island's matriarch. A large, friendly woman with a generous smiled emerged from the tiny home and promptly whisked us around her small plot of reeds. She proudly showed off her television radio, solar panel, and her greatest possession, the ''Mercedes Benz'', a large reed boat with twin reed statuaries on the front which we boarded and enjoyed a leisurely float between the homes. After a simple but tasty soup prepared in her cucina, a small wood fired stove set atop the reed plot (''muay peligroso'' I said to her agreement) we left to a cheerful and heartfelt goodbye from La Presidenta and her family. Sailing for much of the rest of the afternoon we arrived in a small fishing village near the Bolivian border where we stayed with the Imara people, a bilingual tribe whose appearance and culture was distinctive from the Peruvians we had met previously. At the home of Javier Rameros we ate a simple dinner of soup, fried cheese, and potatoes. He was a friendly and gracious man with many questions about our home and the people there; we talked for some time over a bottle of wine we had brought from the mainland (one which he was most thankful for). After dressing in some of the Rameros' finest traditional clothing, we were escorted to a party hosted by some of the locals. A large band played both traditional Peruvian flute music mixed with a rapid salsa inspired beat. We danced and drank corn beer, even our reluctant host was eventually chided into joining after a few Cusquenas. Sitting comfortably in the corner I watched my wife twirl and spin in a long stream of Peruvian women who eventually broke into a sort of Conga line which circled the room at a dazzling pace. We watched the sunrise over Lake Titicaca from the quaint courtyard of our host's home among various small flowers before embarking back to Puno. The size and expanse of the lake was staggering as it melted, seamlessly, into the golden horizon. After arriving in Puno we boarded a small and colorful bus to tour the Sillustani Burial Towers. On a high plateau sat large stone silo's made of blocks that must have weight at least a ton each. The site was certainly inspirational, high above Lake Umayo provided a majestic view as we explored the 20 or so towers, each housing dozens of remains and dated from 300 B.C. Upon leaving, my wife paused for her photo at the entrance when suddenly, out of seemingly thin air, a little Peruvian girl, appeared at her side right as the shutter snapped. Only the blackest of hearts could have denied her the Sole she so industriously earned and we roared with laughter at her little game. The next morning we left for the Juliaca Airport and our flight home, happy and completely satisfied with this grand adventure, with a new appreciation of our home and the many things we take for granted. We also took home with us a truer understanding of the benefits of a simpler life, of what the ''third world'' really means, of small joys and the quiet peace these people enjoy. Adventure Life delivered to us much more than promised. We were turned from rat race workaholics into true explores. We were challenged physically, mentally and emotionally. There were unknown and unplanned obstacles that were swiftly and gracefully overcome by our guides and crews. Perhaps most importantly inner barriers and fears were broken, our world view and understanding was greatly expanded, and for that we are truly thankful to the staff at Adventure Life, to Javier our guide in Titicaca, and most of all, to Juan Samanez whom we are so privileged to count as a companion and friend.