Lost Cities Found: My Journey to the Retreats of the Inca Empire - Part 1: Cuzco, the Sacred Valley, and Vitcos-

    

Prelude to a Royal Death

Abrasive cries and wales screamed forth into the Andean skies as the sacred Apus, near and far, braced themselves, horridly anticipating more...

Not one observer could stand to watch. Even the birds, propped high on the church's façade had to turn away from the gruesome view surreally befalling so many stories below on the grounds in front of the Santo Domingo Church.

The brightest light had just been extinguished right as the last sawing sounds abruptly ceased.

I awoke in a sweat, wondering where I'd been. The clock read: 10:42 p.m., as I shook my head, fearing the vivid visions might have lasting effects.

It'd been three weeks since my arrival to the ancient capital. Since then, I'd been staying at Hostal Iquique on Calle Recoleta, right at the border between old and new town Cuzco. I opted for this location, mostly, given my familiarity with the neighborhood, following my previous two lengthy trips to the Andean city. If anywhere in Cuzco formed my haunts, Calle Recoleta, a 10-minute walk from the Plaza de Armas, would be my claim.

Hours before, I had solidified plans for a four-day venture along a route that defined an empire. More specifically, a route that, over time, resolved a conflict of two empires, between the reigning champions of both Old World and New. 

In my many years of study and travel, I had read and heard about the tales of the legendary Sapa Incas following the 1531 Spanish incursion: Manco Inca and his many iterations in both Cuzco and beyond; as well as his three Vilcabamba-based sons, Sayri Tupac, Titu Cusi, and Tupac Amaru. 

I'd also been told by my friend in Lima that the long road to Vilcabamba was one of the most fascinating trails and tales to be had whilst in the Cuzco Region; at least concerning the later decades of Incan existence and resistance, years following the initial Spanish conquest of Perú.

The interchange with José was integral in my decision to venture to the Last Refuge of the Incas.

"Si realmente quieres un viaje, no veo ningún lugar mejor para ir. (If you really want a trip, I don't         see anyplace better to go.)" he affirmed.

Having my sights set on returning to Cuzco and the Sacred Valley but not much more, I responded, "Pero no entiendo por qué. (But I don't understand why.)"

José demanded, "Patricio! Recuerda las historias que te conté toda la semana pasada. Lo verás más claro! (Patricio! Remember back to the stories I told you all of last week. It'll become clearer!)"

My friend's message was clear. We'd visited the best museums in Lima, walked all over the capital city talking about Peru's history, ancient, modern, and present. We had eaten meals together, both in public and at his home, discussed even more history, myths, literature, and music. And now was the time to delve deeper into making all of this come fully alive. I knew he was right. For I simply needed to conjure the courage to venture beyond my cultural comfort zone.

But, first, I needed real rest. I hadn't been sleeping well for nights. So, after my first flash of nightmare, surely the result of a tale José once told, I had little choice but to succumb to my slumberous fate.

Lost Cities Found: My Circular Journey to the Retreats of the Inca Empire (Part 2: Vilcabamba)

Tracking the Ancients

The next morning, my alarm taunted me. It heckled: "5:22 a.m." 

I had dreamt feverishly the previous night. The scenes included precarious jungle domains, surveilling deadly predators, and lung-stifling humidity. All daunting possibilities, potentially awaiting us on our four-day horizon. 

Relics of my dream returned, surely the influence of Jose:

Loud clanging of armor to armor, stood out from the rest. Or was it armor to sword? 

Three Toledo steel-clad men ran hastily around rocks, through lush foliage, winding their way on a trail of muddy earth. In a large opening of cloud forest, the three men abruptly stopped. 

From there, fog serenely floated through the forest of infinite trees, as the fierce chase took a brief pause. Though noticeably winded, the soldiers still searched from standing, frantically alert to the limitless obscurities and dangers of the exotic jungle thicket.

Speaking intelligibly in old Spanish, one said to the other two: "Mirad! Sería mejor si separamos (Look! It'd be better if we split up). Ellos no van a poder durar mucho tiempo más (They won't be able to last much longer)." 

They efficiently split into three parts, a surefire way of finding their highly-sought prey, as the union of men recommenced their raging search. 

The raucous awoke even the deepest of sleepers in one Tupac Amaru. He, for the first time in weeks, had dreamt to a sweat. He needed air, as he gasped for any that he could find in the immediate Vilcabamba jungle. As big decisions loomed large for the Sapa Inca, only concern marked his late-night stirrings. Could this close encounter with the Iberians be a sign of things to come for the Loyalists?

As I wiped the cold sweat from my brow, I was grateful that the dangers of my lucid Lima dream hadn't followed me into the physical. I did, however, still observe haunting thoughts pass gloomily through my head, like sticky shadows stuck to my mental aura. For some reason, I, too, felt concern for what I had just seen. Perhaps the vision, like it may have been for the Sapa Inca, was a sign of things to come along our journey to the ancient citadel.

Regardless, I had to get going. So, I desperately needed to pivot from downward to upward.

Hence, breathing and stretching, first. Preparation, next. Then, it'd be time to create the day, minus the dread.

During an absurdly early soup-session inside the restaurant portion of Uncle Juan's store, I observed the arrival of various locals. All were busy chatting, while some purchased products at what appeared to be the hippest shop in Huancacalle. 

One customer in the store stood out. He was a mountain guide about to embark on the long southeasterly trail to Machu Picchu, in the direction opposite ours. 

"A dónde vas, tú? (Where are you going?)" He asked. "A Vilcabamba (To Vilcabamba)" I answered.

"Bien. Bueno, lo vas a disfrutar. Es un lugar hermoso. (Good. Well, you're going to enjoy it. It's a beautiful place.)" He affirmed. I nodded with equal hopes. 

Miky, or Miguel Angel Choque Delgado, was from Cuzco and was working for the Cuzco Regional Government in documenting the varying distances, elevations, and other characteristics of the ancient trails of the region. 

As we talked, I could sense a solidness to his character. His presence was that of a real, self-assured mountain guide. He traveled independently, equipped with only a map and a limited-supplied backpack. 

Albeit in a modern-day way, the thought that flooded my mind was Chaski, those timelessly-rooted Andean messengers who collectively crisscrossed and connected tambos (storage houses) to transport royal missives. And though I didn't bring this thought to Miky's attention, I'm sure in one way or another the comparison would've been an appreciated equivalence.

There was, however, something else that needed to be brought up. Having wanted to ask him earlier and throughout, I finally joked, "te llamas Miky, así como Mick Jaggar? (you call yourself Miky, like Mick Jaggar?)"

Miky smiled. He then, shockingly, went on to lift his jacket up, revealing a Rolling Stones' tongue t-shirt underneath. "Cómo lo sabías, amigo?! (How did you know, friend?!) Es mi grupo favorito, bro!" (It's my favorite band, bro!)"

Lost Cities Found: My Circular Journey to the Retreats of the Inca Empire (Part 3: Arrival to and Escape from Vilcabamba)

José first provided me the photo to the left during one of his many Lima lectures, somewhere wedged into the fuller-than-full week I spent in the capital prior to my first trip to the Andes and the former capital of Cuzco. 

It's an image that's inspired and haunted me ever since. It shows Hiram Bingham with a local guide at the newly-found, for western science, ruins of Espiritu Pampa, or Vilcabamba, in August of 1911. 

As the lecture's lesson went, Bingham had "discovered" Machu Picchu only a few weeks before.

Pressed for time at Vilcabamba, Bingham had to leave the site. But he would return, however, in 1912 and 1915 in order to clear the jungle foliage, make measurements, and map the site. 

Importantly, Bingham failed to properly identify Vilcabamba as the last capital of the Incas, instead believing Machu Picchu to be the said location. Thus, the Old Mountain (the English translation of the Quechua, Machu Picchu) became the place of focus for intense clearance and excavations. And, within the next couple of decades, the "Lost City of the Incas," as it was known, gained world notoriety, which grew in acclaim through the decades. Today, the site is as popular a destination as it has ever been, with over a million total visitors to the park each year from 2012 to present-day.

If we're to be nitpicky, José affirmed, Vilcabamba could be considered the truer "Lost City of the Incas" when compared with Machu Picchu, for reasons that we'll discuss below. Regardless of stature, though, Vilcabamba most certainly is the last capital of the Incas. Specifically, it, along with Vitcos, was one of the capitals of the Incas during the Neo-Incan State, a necessary entity formed by loyalist Incas and led by the Sapa Inca (Manco Inca, et al.) and high officials, following the continued power ascension of the Spanish through the Andean region of greater Cuzco from 1537 onward. The expansion of Vilcabamba and Vitcos, and the populating of these areas, created a relatively insulated region, the Vilcabamba Region, for the Incas to live and operate from, between 1537 and 1572.

Oh, if José could see me now., I again fancied, antcipating our arrival to Vilcabamba proper and eventual escape back to Quillabamba.

Destination (Finally) Known: Vilcabamba

Notwithstanding the considerable time it took to complete the hellacious staircase descent, I, in the end, was victorious. 

However, my childish complains over the past four hours had taken their toll on my friend Eddy, who had had more than his fill from the complaining gringo. His arrival to Espiritu Pampa had been much more calm, poised, and drama-free. I, on the other hand, had probably resembled a flogged pig in labored, dolorous search of relief.

The psychophysical misery of the Neo-Incan staircase did come to a halt, however, but only after the last giant step. Then, and only then, did my excruciating knee-tension magically release. It was doubtless one of the most notable shifts I had ever experienced in my physical history. Astonished by it all, I looked back up toward the long, ominous staircase of death with this newfound lens of calm. It was as if, remarkably, the hitherto pain that had cursed my body for those thousand-or-so steps had never even existed.

Coasting along a flat path in swift, stunning silence, we intuited our upcoming entrance into a town. Sure enough, a brief, harmless incline at last yielded sight of the first sign mentioning Vilcabamba. I rejoiced in this discovery, as did my friend. Considering our demanding, two-day struggle from high mountains to bona fide jungle, our arrival couldn't have come at a more opportune time.

"We Thought You Were CIA!": Tracing the Footprints of the Shining Path in the Central Peruvian Jungle

The Shining Path was a Maoist-inspired revolutionary group in Peru whose vision was to wipeout, through armed struggle, the capitalist system of the country, creating a blank slate on which to build a new, communist society.

They, along with the National Peruvian Army, were responsible for the death of approximately 70,000 people, including many innocent civilians during all of the 1980's, lasting up until the peace treaty was signed in 1992. 

The Central Peruvian jungle, my destination for this trip, was one of the hotbeds for Shining Path recruitment and activity throughout the 12+ years of conflict, and, thus, was a flashpoint for later violence and war with the Peruvian Military.

I ventured forth, anxiously, vulnerably, trembling from my arrival to this novel climate and geography, a milieu I had only envisioned in rabid daydreams and impromptu meditations. Visual clips cut from travel shows in both English and Spanish raged through my mind. The brackish waters, suffocating humidity, and perpetual predatorial surveillance.

Certainly, my habitual tendency to leap into the unknown has most always been a wonderful asset, blossoming and attracting opportunities to discover new worlds. In this current case, an entrance into the Amazon jungle was on tap. An audacious meeting that would've otherwise been shut out had I not been channeling my innate bravery.

Launching Pad

My anxiously anticipated journey commenced from the central Peruvian city of Huancayo (10,692 ft.). Located on the perched and hugely extensive Andean valley of Mantaro, Huancayo is an ideal city to visit if you desire a feeling of the Andes without the tourist traffic of Cuzco. Its mountains are more tame and its climate slightly drier than its Cuzquenan counterpart.

I was lucky enough to get to know this city from my Lima-to-Huancayo bus-trip acquaintance Pamela, and her son Josue. A couple of days' touring the sights was sufficient to orient myself to this mostly toned-down city. We explored the historical and cultural sites: the impressive cathedral, a trio of churches, and one fascinating regional history museum. We also mixed it up, delving into a number of restaurants and music clubs during our evenings together. 

Lost Cities Found: Meeting the ‘Sister,’ Choquequirao: Zigzagging the ‘Walls of Eternity.’

Catharsis.

3:20 a.m. Visability: jet black. 45 degrees Fahrenheit, with a light breeze coming from the southeast.

The initial heaves erupted in extreme, hallucinogenic flashes. The ensuing and myriad aftershocks yielded similarly hellish results. After what seemed to be endless declarations of profound sickness, I finally reached a brief moment of peace. With an all-fours’ crawl on warm earth, the cold sweat that shot from my forehead like grease splashing from a hot skillet now settled as my temperature quickly followed suit.

                 

From here, I had nothing more to surrender as I delighted in this blessed break from the onslaughts. I had just vomited my guts out. And, now, my concern was the acute dehydration that followed. Despite the madness, I, amazingly, still managed to find moments for humility, even gratitude. Brushing off my dirty hands, which were the unavoidable result of the uncontrollable heaves and concomitant fall to ground, I took a brief moment to enjoy my surroundings. Deep breathes of life and the accompanying mountainous visual grounded my attention both to the present and to the heavenly terrain that seemed to envelope me: omnipotent mountain peaks; abysmal river canyon; the most radical of hillside inclines humanly imaginable. Feeling a semblance of spark, I wandered forward.

Well. Scratch that. More aptly, I lunged, lethargically, confusedly, mostly aimlessly. And, as such, with my only orienting factor being the arduous incline to the heavens in front of me, the trail on which I resolved to continue, ever-so-sickly, one step at a time. To say I had heavy feet would be a gross understatement. I was the universe’s best breathing example of the walking dead!

Two minutes through the “death stroll,” I needed to rest again. And, after a couple more lifeless steps, I did so. It was on a series of small rocks at the trail's edge, where I sat, rested and contemplated the prospects of my life. Shortly thereafter, I drearily noticed a man walking in my direction on the trail below. The energetic, 30-something man approached. It was no miracle that he immediately inquired as to my condition, in seeing that I was in all likelihood horridly pale and suffering. 

                                                    

His empathetic reaction to my sorry state was offered in his concern for my life as well as in the form of a granola bar. The currency of care for hikers. Thus, I accepted, graciously. He then reached for an extra water bottle from his pouch. I thanked the kind man, satisfactorily conjuring up a meek smile. 

Before his departure, he queried, "Oye! Vas a estar bien?! (Hey! Are you going to be okay?)" I mustered a mutter: "Sí, estaré bien. Gracias por todo... (Yes, I'll be okay. Thank you for everything...)" We went on to engage in a game of look sharing and nods, with the solitary aim being to establish some form of assurance. Once the man was sufficiently assured, he, as if directly connected to the fountain of youth, skipped on. While, I, in stark contrast, could do little more than watch him hop away, so annoyingly effortless.

Soon after, feeling more sparks that now almost resembled a charge, I opted to make yet another desperate attempt. This time, surrender was setting in, I would thus tread lightly, while immersing further into the sickness-inspired hallucinogenic trip.

As I ambled along, I wearily observed the trail’s dry, amber-colored earth with hints and tints of vibrant illumination. The steep mountain side, stretching from so high above, to deep down, abysmally down below, had the same psychedelic effect. I peered over to the distant outlying mountain peaks, so enormous in size, and many of them with glacial caps, as they gloriously exalted into the sky. 

The sun’s rays began to weigh down upon me as the temperature simply exploded. My “sweats” turned from cold to hot and quickly back. Light-headedness breached and gripped me, unerringly, for the rest of the day. And so I could safely claim that it was indifference that marked my experience on this fourth and final day of my trek to Choquequirao, the blessed(?) sister of Machu Picchu. The Inca ruin site located four hours southwest of the city of Cuzco, the former Inca capital.

Lost Cities Found: The Old Mountain: Profundity and Comedy on the Road to the Disneyland of South America

Ever since I was young, I had dreamt of proudly planting my feet in the fertile soils of Machu Picchu. Exploring its ancient architectural layout. Soaking in its unique and blessed air.

The culprit to my insatiable desire: fascinating and enticing television programs displaying this uncommon union of natural with man-made beauty. A union made manifest by the Incas, the worthy imperial masters of the Andes, who flourished throughout most of the South American mountain range from approximately 1400 to 1533 AD. In addition to their commonly known architectural contributions, such as temples, citadels, and irrigation systems, my imagination and soul were stirred by the Incas' (and their predecessors') impressive and varied art, vibrantly colored and intricately patterned weavings, and captivating music and dance. 

The other contributor to my learned (and innate) attraction to this place was reading and studying the many histories of Latin America, particularly those of Peru. Thus, Machu Picchu, the Cuzco Region, and greater Peru have become an unrelenting passion, my passion. 

Until you have set foot onto the Machu Picchu site, or in any other location throughout the Andes mountains, it's impossible to imagine such beauty, such grandeur, such a heavenly ambience in one natural setting. Machu Picchu still ranks high on my list, given the other sense-inspiring and -awing vista areas to which I've journeyed in other parts of the Andean region. 

In the case of this four-day and three-night venture (which forms the typical Sacred Valley to Machu Picchu trip via the "Inca Trail"), of which I had the honor of taking in December of 2008, few of my previous trekking adventures would stand up to the magnificent sights and experiences lived here on the road to the "Old Mountain," (the English translation of) Machu Picchu.

From Kilometer 82, a half-hour past the alluring and historically-important Sacred Valley town of Ollantaytambo, this adventure begins. 

It was a warm day, with clear skies, and an air filled with excited anticipation. In addition to me, the only North American, there were two Argentines, three Spaniards, two Germans, two Frenchmen, one Englishman, and one Irishman. Sounds like the start to a really long joke, huh? But really... The beauty of a trip like this is that, like it or not, you will assuredly get to know the characters in your group.

Fortunately, this bunch was very familial given the influence of a certain few: namely, the Spaniards and Argentines. More than anyone else on the trip, these nationals put the "close" in close-knit. Invariably, they were the ones enraptured in conversation, while the "northerners," (the Germans, English, Irish, and, to a lesser extent, the American - the writer) were more comfortable being reserved, uncertain about the open nature of conversation and intermingling.

From the beginning, there were fluid vibes flowing between almost all involved. Almost, I say, because one of the Germans, a woman in her fifties, was quite unbalanced and, at once, stood out for strange. 

I, fortunate as I am, and given my "un-paired" status for the trip, was the beneficiary of a three-night, two-person tent-stay with this woman, who, as it turns out, was really very sweet and was only a little weird given either her, as might say the psychologist, questionable psychological state, or her, per the spiritualist, extreme sensitivity.

The others, not having this intimate mode of communication like myself, never truly understood this woman. And, unfortunately for the cohesiveness of the unit and, more generally, for humanity's sake, most didn't even attempt to crack her code.

On the Guano Trail, Paracas and Isla Ballestas: A revisit to Mid-19th Century Peru

I hopped the bus at the early hour of 8 a.m., en route to my first south-of-Lima coastal destination: The beach town of Paracas.

The brisk, six-hour tour sped down the arid Peruvian desert coast. Rolling dry hills with wind-blown sand and even drier vegetation is all one could see for miles into the distance. Visions of sand-people would hardly be a shock in this familiar terrain. I had been here before. No, not in the movies, but in the flesh. So, I was accustomed to this surprisingly (to some) arid landscape that runs in shocking contrast to the images of Machu Picchu and the cloud-forest type climate and micro-climates of many parts of the Andes Mountains. On this dry desert trip, Cruz del Sur was the bus of choice (one of the most efficient and expensive liner in Peru) and perfectly welcome given my desire for smooth sailing.

On board the bus, a lively game of Bingo enriched our already enriching ride. The flamboyant attendant/host led the game with his impassioned number/letter-calling and his sumptuous promise of an alluring prize to the winner: the omnipresent bottle of pisco, the official alcohol of Peru. (Note: This liquor is a grape brandy whose fruits are grown exclusively in Pisco--a city south of Lima along the coast--, the area through which we passed during our venture.

As I loosely played the very familiar and very American game, my excitement bubbled upon realizing that I was checking off rather quickly almost all of the numbers called. So fast in fact, that before I knew it, I had one spot left on my Bingo card! A pressure-filled pause ensued. A breath to quell the nerves. And, then, the next jovial call by the attendant: A miss! I gave myself a short bit of positive self-talk as my anticipation increased exponentially in the form of RBH: Rapidly Beating Heart. To add to the intensity, I knew that a few other passengers on the nearly full, two-level bus were close to claiming victory as well. I reveled in my good fortune (which I felt on an intuitive level), as I pondered to myself: Could this "Bingo-roll" on which I was on be a sign of equal success to come during the rest of my fourth official trip through Peru?! Regardless of outcome, at that point, I expected to win. "Just one more!" I ecstatically blurted out to my bus-neighbor.

Next call: B-9. That was it. I had won! I arose immediately. And, in utter satisfaction, I confidently proclaimed, "Yeees, I won!" The diva-like host approached me in a fitting manner and carefully checked my card. A few seconds after his close, and surely perfectionist, examination, I was declared the winner of the Lima-to-Paracas Bingo contest. The others on board the "Cruz" cheered while a few sore-losers chided in playful competitiveness. I laughed proudly in celebration, and immediately inquired about the whereabouts of my much sought-after bottle of pisco, the soul of Peruvian soil! I was soon after awarded the bottle, a spectacle that elicited a kindly cheer from my peers. In good cheer, I offered to open the bottle and share a toast with my fellow cruzeros, who were mostly of European descent, save for a few Peruvians here and there. But the tidy host, with his friendly smile, informed me, "That isn't allowed, mister (a common greeting-error made by non-native English speakers). I'm sorry." As I announced my discontent playfully to him, he thanked me for my excitement on offer as he confessed that the usual Bingo sessions are quite boring. I told him "no problem," and took my seat with pisco in tow to enjoy the rest of my trip.

The Broken Arches: Beauty and Courage Prevail in the Wake of Natural Chaos, The Aftermath of the Peruvian Earthquakes and Tsunami of 2007

It was evening time in the small city of Pisco, on the central Peruvian coast. As hot food arrived to the table of two young workers who had just finished their day, a terrible, being-shattering rumble erupted. Everybody under the roof of the street-side food stand paused and rode the terrorizing wave that ensued. The structures that usually remain stable were thrown into whichever direction they most comfortably fell; walls crumbled, roofs collapsed, and power-lines slumped to the ground. All of the people at this food stand, cooks and clientele alike, were covered in the wood, plastic, and debris of the falling structure under which they had formerly stood and sat. Painful pleas for help and cries for loved ones intensified with each passing moment. Mothers hysterically searching for their children, and friends calling out to their friends; all were intimately connected to and effected by these long seconds of natural chaos.

(Pictures provided by AP and Reuters, respectively.)

The reports coming from Lima (the capital city of Peru) was that the earthquake was measured at 7.9. On the following day it was officially-raised to 8.0. These random numbers and scientific reports were of no real concern to the people who had been directly effected by the huge quake; many lost loved ones, were injured, and/or lost their homes or businesses, in addition to the immense stress related to going through such a terrorizing event. The reality of the situation was that the epicenter of the quake was just outside the town of Chincha, which meant that the people most effected by the rumbles were people residing in weak structures (A.K.A. poor people). Death estimates, after the shocks stopped, were approximately 600.