Choquequirao is a former Inca village, ceremonial area, and lookout located in the Salkantay Mountain Range to the southwest of the city of Cuzco, the former Inca capital. Today it is an impressive Inca ruin site rival in beauty to that of its "sister," Machu Picchu.
After a four-hour bus ride twirling through the subtle ascents and descents of the Abancay region (with only a few pee-breaks and snack-breaks marking and halting our trail), we were let off at a stop along Highway 3, the road to the town of Abancay.
The views from this Central Peruvian road stop high above a wide open and panoramic mountain dream scape were strangely reminiscent of the mass-produced screen saver images found on the computer in your dentist's office. It was like a dream: the meandering lines of ubiquitous mountains, the flowing of fresh water streams, the rapidly-moving clouds divinely staining the deep blue sky.
As the cool Andean air passed through my hair, and at one point nearly smothered me with its sheer force, I was quickly brought back to reality and reminded that we were on a mission to other pastures, literally. My friend and trek guide Miky immediately affirmed, "Patricio, vamos por aca!(let's go over here!)." My Peruvian friend referred to the other direction away from the landscape that formed my imaginative home-felt comforts to the pressing task at hand: which was, to find transportation to our next stop. And so it was, that my cross-cultural comparisons were squelched and put to the side.
I, with a refocus mind, and my two Cusqueno (the term used for people from Cuzco) friends Miky and Evelyn (his cute girlfriend) immediately, with two other lugarenos (locals) approached a taxi driver who had successfully anticipated the arrival of our bus and our business. The three of us, plus the two lugarenos, promptly reserved our spots in his colectivo taxi (a taxi that leaves only when full, with all passengers paying an equal price). After hesitantly leaving my idyllic spot high on the mountain top, we cruised our way along the traversal road leading deep down into a town at the base of a valley.
The sure-wheeled comfort of the white Toyota wagon taxi was a perfect way to travel, and a welcome relief after the nerve-rattling adventure of our former mode of transportation. It also allowed for us, the passengers, to visit briefly. One man of the alien duo was very eager to find out who I was, and in particular, my country of origin. After we exchanged a few greetings in Spanish, and he was satisfied with the response from the gringo, Miky and the curious man rapped in Quechua, the language of the Central and Northern reaches of the Andes Mountains, and the official language of the Incas. It is a beautiful language full of guttural sounds similar to most ancient tongues. As one of my other Quechua-speaking Cusqueno friend's once told me, "Quechua is poetic; its descriptions are lyrical and metaphoric." Even though the current conversation between Miky and the curious man was primarily based on the current number of tourists in the area among other things, it nevertheless sounded to be straight out of an Andean campesino poetry contest; it could have fooled me!
Miky, who I had serendipitously met a year before in the rural Cuzco Region town of Vitcos (an important place in the history of the Incas, for more information refer to John Hemming's seminal book "The Conquest of the Incas") during the start of my quest to the jungle of Vilcabamba, is a well-known, and highly-respected mountain guide in the Cuzco Region. He works with various tour agencies in Cuzco, his hometown, and has been contracted by the Cuzco Regional Government to document various aspects of the Inca Road trails. With sixteen years of experience as a guide through these parts, a profound knowledge of the history and current realities of this region, and with a self-coined nickname inspired by the invincible front man of the Rolling Stones, I thought him to be the perfect character and ambassador to assist me on my journey to the far reaches of the Andean unknown.
As Miky and the man continued to shift their way effortlessly though various topics from farming to tourism, and from Quechua to Spanish and vice verse, the colectivo taxi traversed rapidly while descending the steeps to Cachora, the town of origin for what was to be our divine trek to the "sister," Choquequirao.
Cachora, the capital of the Abancay Province of the Cuzco Region, was founded in 1943 and has, just like most Andean towns, always exclusively focused its economy on agriculture. Recently, especially after the Peruvian and French governmental-funded projects to expand the accessibility to the site of Choquequirao in early 2000's, the influx of tourists have hugely influenced the business and livelihood leanings of the town and its inhabitants; this quaint traditional Andean town is in transformation.
New businesses are being started by locals as well as non-locals (in the form of restaurants, hostels, tour agencies, and Internet cafes), funds have been and are being thrown into the infrastructure of the town and its distant areas, and many people even non-citizens (i.e. Limenos-from Lima-, Chileans, and Europeans) are investing in the future of the town and its advantageous positioning as the easiest starting-point to the ruins of Choquequirao. A ruin site that is known as a perfect alternative to its overly-popular sister site, Machu Picchu. In all likelihood, as a result of all of these activities and growth, Cachora, will see and feel profound impacts. This, needless to say, will radically affect the orientation of the people who live in Cachora, and the look of the town itself. As for now, present-day Cachora, a relatively slow-going town huddled away in a valley in the heart of the Andes, was the perfect starting point to embark on our journey.
Still in the taxi, we ventured through the Spanish grid-style streets, eventually arriving in mid-town. There, we promptly exited the cab, cordially thanked the driver and the other passengers, and departed in search of a late breakfast. Miky had just the right place in mind. It was a locally-run Chicheria/Restaurant that served chicha (the fermented corn drink, with often a high alcohol content) and whichever elected and cooked meal of the day. We passed on the chicha, all promising to drink its modern-day counterpart, beer, only at the end of the day, and opted for the daily plate. We ate the meal, which consisted of rice, beans, and chicken, rather quickly, in anticipation of our disciplined start time at one-thirty in the afternoon. We bought and assembled our remaining necessities at a local store and walked off into the horizon (literally) to the edge of the town.
As we neared the perimeter of the town, I found that my previous description of Cachora as being a "basin" could more aptly be described as being "three quarters of a cereal bowl with a quarter of it broken-out." This was evident as we followed a long road that stretched the entire length of the town, and eventually spilled into the outer-lying plethora of small chacras (farms) that patched the falling landscape away from the higher-elevated and situated base of the town itself. At this point, I was ecstatic to reenter nature again, though a slight anxiety was building in knowing that we were officially leaving the comforts of "civilization" for the next three days. In spite of my mixed feelings, and most likely those of my friends, we walked, fully outfitted with heavy packs, over the vibrant grass and sloppy dirt of the expansive Cachoran chacras.
The impressive terrain and its concomitant views magically opened up. When I looked back up toward the Abancaino capital "city," I noticed the chiseled-out quality that beautifully-marked and accented the enormous encompassing mountain-scape of Cachora. In what was to be a common theme throughout the four-day trek, I proclaimed to myself in a whisper, "Wow!"; it was a personal acknowledgement that I, and by extension we, were more than lucky to be present in these parts, and to be alive!
A half hour into what was most definitely a peaceful stroll, filled with twists and turns through a prairie-like landscape, we reached our first stop of the day: a hacienda owned and maintained by a woman in her 70's. The lady revealed herself only after several knocks on the front door. After chatting with her for a few moments, she was obviously very lively and didn't appear to look her age. We conversed openly on several topics including: (once again) my gringo and, this time, Californian origin, her children and grandchildren living in the United States, the changes that came after the land reforms of the late 1960's in Peru and the resulting effects, among various practical topics related to the upcoming trek. After I responded to nature's call, we thanked her for her time and commenced our trek anew.
As we reentered the trail, we immediately saw a sign that read: Choquequirao, 27 km. I did the necessary metric system to American system conversion, and realized that our march was to be about 16 miles to the ruin site! At this pace, and with a trail as easy as this one, I figured "no problem!"
Once sensing my, and collectively our, "walk in the park" attitude, Miky promptly assured me that the "stroll" would only last a few more hours; once we reached the first vista point of the Apurimac Valley, we would be privy to the grandeur of not only the beauty and profundity of this area, but also to the difficulty of the trail on which we would spend the next three days of our lives laboriously descending and ascending (and vice verse for the return trip)!
Miky subsequently asked Evelyn and I, "What do you think of the view?"
I responded without hesitation, "That's the most incredible view I've ever seen in my life!"
Evelyn agreed with her customary cute laugh.
Miky then commented with his Cusqueno charm, "If you liked that one, wait until we reach the bend up in the distance."
He pointed to the farthest visible sight of the trail, as he proclaimed, "Up there, that's where we'll rest, eat a snack, and see the real greatness of the Apurimac Valley!"
Instead of being intimidated by my friend's "warning" of the unknown realities to come, I was exhilarated as I continued on with a skip in my step and adventure in my heart! And, given the singing of songs and overall cheeriness of the group, I found that I was not alone in my excitement! So we sang songs like: "I'm too sexy" by Right Said Fred, "Amores Prohibidos" by the great Mexican rock band Elefante, and which ever others flitted through our imaginations; I was on cloud nine, and my co-trekkers were too!
The anticipation of reaching the upcoming vista at the "Point of No Return" was absolutely enthralling! We all celebrated our adventure and the prospects of journeying to a place that previously only one of us had been. I could feel the excitement in Miky, the sole veteran of the trio, for his soul burns for trekking through these glorious mountain paths and feeling the unbreakable fusion with the Earth. I was to see and feel this often during the whole trek, not only in him, but also in myself.
This passion carried us. No, it transported us to the ledge of the "Point." Just before reaching the point, a few questions bombarded me: Would there actually be a trail to continue on?!, Would we have to jump?!, What was on the other side?!, And, did any of this really matter?!
To answer all of these questions: nothing at that point really mattered; the unbounded positive energy of the triad was so substantial that flying would not have even been out of the question! And it was so that we arrived at the "Point of No Return."
The first steps through the threshold of the "Point" were hallucinogenic. My motion slowed and the light and shadow play of the sun on the mountain scape was so surreal that it couldn't hope to be replicated by even the most talented of Hollywood set designers. If it is possible to have a visual orgasm with nature, then this was had; not only by me, but surely by all! Cosmic flashes seemed to reverberate and ricochet through my vision as I absolutely relished in our blessed trek ambiance. At that moment, no words originating from any dictionary could describe such utter beauty; the only words that were expressed were: "Wow!"; "Huhhh!"; "Incredib..."; and whichever other orgasmic sounds and incomplete adjectives could be aligned and verbally released!
From high atop the "Point," it was the majesty of Mt. Veronica, times one-hundred! The same gargantuan mountain steeps characteristic of Mt. Veronica, starting up high and falling down below the river valley that splits the two sides of mountain walls, were omnipresent and ran the entire length of the valley from right to left. The sky was as blue as it gets, with subtle clouds gracing the various high peaks of the long mountain range. It's safe to say that this view brought us back down to Earth. At this point, I couldn't even pose those same questions that I attempted to ask before. In short, "NO," we would not fly to Choquequirao; we would travel by much more traditional means, on foot, while cherishing each moment and each view of our surroundings.
The trio took a necessary half-hour lunch-break while sitting on a large rock with canopy overhead; it was the perfect lookout for any human being to just sit and take in the healing mountain air. There was a magic that I was feeling at this moment; although I felt grounded by the immensity of the place and the task at hand, I also felt rejuvenated and impassioned by the greatness of our endeavour. The three of us joked our way through lunch which at first consisted of salami, queso fresco (Andean cheese, or literally, fresh cheese), apples, and bread.
A few moments later, after Miky couldn't hold out any longer, he revealed to us the greasiest of bags. "What is that Miky?!" I asked him curiously. In delight he proclaimed, "Pollo a la Brasa (Fried Chicken)!" Evelyn and I were instantly enamored with Miky (which initiated a joke that would continue for the rest of our journey). We continued to eat calmly and contently as we reveled at the heaven that encompassed us and in which we were living.
Packing up our bags, Miky gave us rookies a well-needed briefing on what was to come. He told us, "Tonight, we will camp at the bottom of this mountain side (referring to the bottom of our current 'wall'); on the second day we'll camp at the top of the other side (referring to the top of the opposite-sitting 'wall'). After going to Choquequirao in the morning of the second day and spending a few hours there, we will return to the first night's camping spot, and then on the fourth day we will return to Cachora." Our plans were set; the form had been formed, and now we were ready to descend the first wall!
When I say descend, I mean DESCEND!!! The entire decline probably included two or three short inclines or flat-clines at best! Our arrival to our first night's campsite would be achieved by descending the steeps of two enormous sets of zigzags, measuring six or seven miles in all.
Ignoring my past issues with knee problems, I enthusiastically got to stomping, and I was immediately joined by my friends as we marched excitedly down the trail! Our trio's escapades were quickly shared by and expanded on by a group that included three Americans and two Peruvians whom we had met at the "Point." As a few of "Los Otros" (or "The Others," as we eventually termed them) passed us, it appeared that the race was on! Even though this fact wasn't explicitly mentioned between either group during the entire course of our meetings, I felt a playful competition latently taking place between the two sides; it was the race to Choquequirao!
The dust of the dry clay zigzag of a trail kicked up at a "Pig-Pen" size and speed. The exhilaration of sixteen stomping feet produced an impressive cloud which contributed nicely to the smokey view of the immediate landscape. I felt solid and, after the first mile, had let go of any pressing worries with regard to my knees; it was time to just let them ride, so as to continue on with "the stomping!" Moving noticeably faster than my Cusqueno friends, I made unofficial "contact" with a few speedy members of Los Otros. After an initial reluctance to consider their "kind," I found that by accepting and allowing their presence to just be, that they were in the end alright; they could be trusted! With all joking aside, one of them, Matt, was from Seattle, the other Johnny, was from Los Angeles. They were two nice chaps equally up for the challenge and just as excited as us to be on this grand adventure to Choquequirao.
Once having waited for Miky and Evelyn, I found that the former of the two wasn't the biggest fan of sharing the trail. Miky was hoping to have it to ourselves; he knew that once there was the presence of hikers moving in the same direction and roughly at the same pace, we would be within more or less the same area for the duration of the trek. Miky's mood gives you an idea of the solitary nature of the trek to Choquequirao, even though there are seasons when the numbers are much higher; much of the time the trail is quite open and vacant. I could empathize with my friend and guide, for I was also from the mountains, and preferred my solitude much of the time. But, given the beauty of this place, I was more than willing to share and celebrate with whoever wanted to participate.
And so it continued for the rest of our evening jaunt: run down hill with long strides for an eighth-mile, reach the end of the leg of the trail, use short, choppy steps to brake and turn the sharp corner, then commence anew until the next corner. I would estimate that we cleared about fifty or sixty of these zig and zags until finally reaching the first night's campsite just after dusk.
After running by night for the last part of the hustle to the campsite, we utilized flashlights to orient ourselves in all camp setup activities; with military-type fashion we got to work. Perfect co-ordination and co-operation were used throughout the organizing of the tasks at hand, which included: tent setup, backpack organizing, dried food purchasing (at a small food-hut), fire igniting, cooking, eating, and finally, relaxing!
At this point, the silence was deafening and felt that it had an other-worldly depth to it; I actually got a macro cosmic feeling which temporarily took me out-of-body! This feeling of silence appeared to exist in a 100-mile radius stretching out from the place at which we sat at our campsite; the silence was so still, that each word thereafter seemed to create an earthquake in the immediate area! I had never experienced silence this profound.
The next day we awoke early, 5:30 a.m., with hopes of out-running the beating rays of the soon-to-rise sun. We promptly ate breakfast, packed-up our stuff, bought a few products that would hold us over until the next depot four hours away, and we left.
Given our location toward the bottom of the river basin, in more of a jungle micro climate, the cool wind flowing through was more than welcome. Actually, most of the day turned out to be a mix of light rain sprinkles and overcast skies which, as it turns out, was an absolute blessing. Miky was very satisfied upon realizing this. He told us, "I've never seen it like this before; usually it's clear skies with the sun beating down hurtfully."
This grand ascent was precluded by a smooth and short descent. A nice little warm-up to ready ourselves for the giant and intimidating climb ahead. As before, although to its opposite, when I say ascent, I mean ASCENT! For we had just descended one wall of eternity, and now we would be crossing the great Apurimac River which stood as the threshold to the other wall that seemed to stretch up toward the sky with unflinching certainty.
I must admit that although I was feeling a bit intimidated by the prospects of the day (the second "wall of eternity"), I felt strong and energized; I was ready for it! Like always throughout the duration of the trek, our humor was on full-board, lending wonderfully to the ease with which we handled seemingly "difficult" circumstances.
The crossing of the Apurimac was reaped with a myriad of feelings. In one respect, we were joyful to have reached the half-way point and to be able to feel the subtle splash of the river below. Luckily, the splash was subtle, given the prior-to wet season that we found ourselves in. Miky pointed out the markings of a cross which was erected to celebrate the life of a Spanish woman who had drowned at the river during the previous wet-season, when the river ran high, which yielded the opposite aspect to our delight. After diving head-first into what seemed to be a safely clear space, the woman ended up diving into a group of enormous boulders just beneath the surface of the river. She hit her head on first impact and was swept away instantly by the river. This small cross with her name, country, and life dates was a small, yet deafening reminder of the occasion and the importance of respecting the Apurimac, whose sheer power has led to numerous deaths throughout human history (for a great kayak and rafting adventure through the Apurimac while tracing the course of the Amazon River, read "Running the Amazon," by Joe Kane, Vintage, 1989).
And so it was, that we began our ascent up the second sacred "Wall of Eternity." The ascent, divided into two parts, was first a series of long stretching zigzags. After a brief stop at Santa Rosa Baja and Santa Rosa Alta, a series of shorter, yet steeper zigzags would eventually lead to the crest of the mountain.
The first of the zigzags, the longer-stretched ones, were a breeze; Miky, Evelyn, and I would only rest now and then to catch our breath and refocus. On the way up, I was in front (perhaps due to my long, American/English legs and/or my experience/enjoyment with respect to up-hill climbs). Although it wasn't a race, I was the first to reach the rest stop at Santa Rosa Baja. As I approached the almost perpendicularly-situated base (to the angle of the mountain), I spotted a 30-something man reaching up with a stick while poking something in a tree. A bit disoriented, I nodded in recognition as he laughed in delight and confessed in a well-spoken and enthusiastic manner, "I like to make games out of everything." I smiled and continued on in search of a place of respite. I found it in a long-stretching bench made of bamboo with a matching shade cover hanging over it. This bench bordered a small yet open and spacious stretch of grass. A vendor's shed and another shed (which turned out to be the wise man's studio apartment/store) bordered on the other sides of this rectangular rest stop/camping site or campamiento.
As I gratefully rested and waited for my friends to arrive, I openly chatted with the "man with a stick." Julian, was the man's name, and his stick was his walking cane; his game was life, and the enjoyment of. Within a few minutes of conversing over just about everything from the beauty of nature to world politics to the power of thought, I realized that I was speaking with someone both quite profound and incredibly playful and light for someone of his level of intelligence. Not that intelligent people aren't playful; they'd be smart to be!
Every once in a while, I would catch Julian talking to what appeared to be himself, or to the trees in the distance. I was initially uncomfortable with this oblivion-talk, but quickly accepted it as "communicating with nature and the spirits of." I not only accepted his antics as that, but I directly asked him on our return visit, "Do you talk to the spirits?" He immediately nodded in affirmation and responded, "Senor, all you have to do is return here one day, and I could show you some things!" Given that the unseen and deeper realities of the Universe interest me, I agreed to one day return to Santa Rosa Baja to visit my new mystic friend Julian.
Julian was the nephew of the operators of the next stop up-mountain at Santa Rosa Alta, and part of an extended family that operated the network of sites on the far side of the mountain. They had a "monopoly" on some of the most utterly beautiful land and landscape in the region, and as far as I'm concerned, in the entire world! With views of all of the various peaks of the region, and a point of view secondary only to that of the campamiento on the mountain's crest, our destination for this night, it was the ideal place to pass long, tranquil, and for my new friend Julian, playful days of enjoyment.
Julian then informed me of the current and future governmental plans to build in the area between Cachora and the Choquequirao ruins. He said that him and his family's campamientos would be replaced by other "new" and "more acceptable" businesses, in all likelihood by non-local entrepreneurs. In the case of the increased populating of the area, Julian told me that he would move into the jungle areas so as to preserve his close-to-nature lifestyle. I immediately voiced my concern and my disdain for irresponsible expansion like this. He agreed with my words and said, "some people just don't understand." I, once again, agreed with my new friend.
Just as we finished discussing this topic, Miky and Evelyn reached the Santa Rosa Baja campamiento. My conversation with Julian immediately shifted to more practical topics; probably out of fear of discomfort. We shifted our discussion to small talk of the trail ahead, the weather, and how much longer to the neighboring site of Santa Rosa Alta. The three of us rested a bit more, ate a small snack of trail mix, washed our faces in the chilly fresh waters of the mountain side, and eventually proceeded to pack up our belonging and head out on the trail anew. As I said my good-byes, I felt that for the time being, our visit was sufficient, and I most definitely anticipated our return to Santa Rosa Baja on the trip back.
From the relaxing retreats of the Santa Rosa Baja we pushed up the mountain incline further through the monotony of zigzags that was now feeling very much to be commonplace. As shocking as it may seem, in spite of the difficulty of our current climb, I felt a comfortable sense of having settled into my feet; "the force" was very much with me. Within minutes of having restarted, I excelled my way forth as if divinely inspired, while I gained a significant lead over my compatriots. After having waited continuously for Miky and Evelyn, we finally entered Santa Rosa Alta together.
This rest stop was a bit of a contrast from our stop before: Julian's relatives were far less open, and much more traditional in nature. This was fine, in that it allowed us time to set up for lunch. We took respite inside one part of the typical campesino shelter which was constructed of thin tree-trunks and branches pressed firmly together. The roof, made of dried foliage, covered the home, obstructing any sprinkle-drops from penetrating the space.
After having set up and commenced our lunch, a collective "ahhh" could be felt as we observed the outside vivid green grass plane that coupled as both beauty object and tent surface. Once the rain subsided, I got up with cheese and salami in hand and decided to take in the view from Santa Rosa Alta. The radically falling landscape of the incline below was hardly viewable due to its intensity. By contrast, the rising glories of the opposite mountain wall were vivid and visually-measurable from bottom to top, but only with a patient eye. Patient, because one must be willing to just watch as the mountain's visual stillness becomes more and more visibly complete as one flows one's glance upward into the heights of eternity.
Miky instinctively joined me as I entered in and out of my nature daze. He made the obvious observation, "So you like this landscape Patricio."
I nodded in happy hippie-like delight, "Oh yeah Miky, these views are amazing!"
We toasted our Coca-Cola's as we both sank into a new batch of nature daze.
After the immensely tranquil lunch stop, our divine trek continued up towards the top of the current wall. Miky informed Evelyn and I of the "difficult stretch" still left before our eventual arrival at our respite spot for the evening, Marampata. At this point in the trek, I was so focused and intent on hiking successfully that nothing could have stood in my way. And with this, I went. I started up the steep zigzag with such an intensity that both of my friends were quickly unseen. With each step, I could feel my closer march toward the target on the mountain top and the concomitant energetic connection with these mountains, with Pachamama (Quechua word for Mother Earth in the Andes). I feel that my use of this term is valid, despite my gringo origin, for at this moment I was a part of these mountains. As I strode on, feeling such a wonderful freedom pounding inside, I felt myself become a part of the Andes, and the Andes became a part of me. I was Pachamama Pat at that moment. And let me tell you, the feeling was incredible and all-encompassing!
I chose to speed ahead at my own pace, not opting to wait for the others. After hour two of my focused and miraculously easy hike, the path began to flatten and straighten-out; I knew that I was reaching the upper part of the mountain top. Moments later, I came to Marampata, which was marked by a short bench with a canopy hanging over it.
I sat on the bench for a while, took my hiking boots off, pulled out a snack and some water, and just breathed in the rejuvenating Andean air. And, without much effort at all, I once again entered into a nature daze while taking in the second-to-none visuals that were omnipresent and inescapably danced before my eyes.
When Miky and Evelyn finally reached the rest stop, I had more than received my fill of the area. Now it was their turn to take it all in; I must admit, I didn't mind continuing my deep sense of peace in this far away place!
After sitting for a few moments and taking countless pictures while futilely attempting to capture the panoramic nature of the vista, Miky informed us, "Let's keep going, the campamiento is just ten minutes away." We agreed as we headed out in slow motion to our terminal leisure spot for the evening and night.
It was only two-thirty in the afternoon when we reached the campamiento; we had gotten such an early start, that it felt later than what it really was. All of us took a seat at the table provided just outside of the "store." Miky saluted the thirty-something indigenous woman in the store; they had met on other occasions during Miky's history of trek guiding through these parts. Evelyn and I cordially introduced ourselves to the inhabitants of the area, as Miky talked at length to the woman about our venture and Los Otros, who were surely to be arriving soon. The woman, whose name escapes me, was very polite and offered us whatever services to lend toward our comfort during our stay at the campamiento.
Allowing the views to speak, we were needless-to-say very comfortable at this site. Its bird-nest vantage-point provided a breath-taking view of all of the neighboring mountain ranges and low-lying valleys below. A cool wind passed through our site as we sat to eat dinner that night. We exchanged stories and jokes, while laughing intensely, just enjoying the company of each other. Miky cooked Evelyn and I a tasty garlic butter pasta served with bread. We followed this up with Oreo cookies and hot chocolate, and with an even flow of beer throughout!
Miky convinced us that the following day, which would consist of a two-hour jaunt to our goal of Choquequirao would be well worth the early-morning wake-up for a few reasons. First, the experience would simply be fantastic given the beauty of both ruins and landscape. Second, arriving before the piercing-hot sun would be ideal in order to save our energy and morale for the return trip back to the other side of the valley before sunset of the following day. Both Evelyn and I agreed to rise at 5 a.m. sharp to clean-up, eat breakfast and head out.
That night in the tent, I was feeling wonderfully free and excited anticipating our arrival to our target destination early the following morning. Prior to drifting off to sleep, I thought back to all of the day's events, and just how perfectly it all had gone: the connection to the land, meeting Julian, the incredible views, and all else.
I slept perfectly that night, and was the first to rise the following morning. After all of our tasks were fulfilled at the campsite, we set out with a light load: small bags holding water, snack, and camera.
The jaunt to Choquequirao was a bit more laborious than initially expected given our previous day's difficult climb. To put it to you straight: I was tired! But, after accepting my fatigue and upset stomach, I marched on through the calmly-floating and low-laying fog that hugged the landscape hiding our view of the Choquequirao ruins. We witnessed beautiful rivers and charming creeks flowing at differing degrees from unseen places uphill to much the same downhill. The vegetation was very wet and muggy; a welcome change from the dryness and heat of the previous days. With all of this beauty, even prior to viewing any of the ruins, I started to ponder: with a place so fantastic in nature, and so comfortable and agreeable in climate, why would the Incas not have built an important ceremonial area in these parts?! To be frank, I could have moved to this place; and if its location wasn't so cut-off from the outside world, I would have!
Flowing along the slight ascents and descents, and through the winding trail still decorated by a lingering fog, we reached our way closer to the main site. I could start to make out a number of terraces cleared away on the side of a mountain. Miky informed us that major excavations were taking place at this newly discovered terrace area. As we pushed our way forth, we came upon a camp of workers and archaeologists, as they were all rising early to start the day's work.
Next, we approached the first ruins gracing our immediate trail. What was initially a short stretch of large, stone-supported terraces measuring about six feet tall, quickly gave way to a whole extended network of terraces ascending up the cleared-away mountain side. At the sight of this multi-layered field (with each layer separated by a six foot drop at which stood an individual terrace), I was tempted to play football of any variety, but was abruptly dejected in knowing that it would be quite dangerous; my insurance probably wouldn't have covered it, and there was no ball to be found either!
As we inspected the beauty and precision of the Inca stone work, I got a charge of excitement that shot through my body and being. I came to the terminal realization that our goal, the site of Choquequirao, the great sister of my beloved Machu Picchu, was quickly approaching. I walked magically along the trail that bordered this long extension of ascending terraces. When the three of us finally made it to the entry point of the main plaza of the Choquequirao site, we all joined in union to congratulate one another.
I told my friends, "Thank you for everything; this whole trip has been the best trekking experience of my life!"
I was supported by Miky and Evelyn with their affirmative responses.
Miky then went on to express, "It was very easy, this whole trip; trekking with somebody like you Patricio makes it this way, and your positive and fun attitude make it all the more enjoyable."
I assimilated my friend's words calmly and graciously. I then responded with a smile, "Well this is the first of many treks for the three of us; in the years to come we will walk many of these Inca roads together."
We then paid witness to the all-impressive site of Choquequirao. We entered the gate at the perimeter of the grass field, the famous marker of all of the popular pictures taken at the Inca site.
As we strode throughout the various areas of the site, a cool and calm air graced our day. The fog cleared, providing us with a perfect view of not only the ruin site, but of the rest of the unimaginable valleys that extended away to the left and right from the Choquequirao nucleus. I quickly realized, while standing with my friends at this exterior vantage-point, that Choquequirao was the perfect area, like most other Inca ceremonial sites, to place a sacred, practical, and aesthetically appealing site. The truth was, that Choquequirao, the same place that my friends and I had spent two arduous days hiking to, was one of the top three most incredible places that I had ever seen and experienced in my life! The other two places both being in the Andes: one in central Ecuador, and the other, not surprisingly, Machu Picchu.
Many transformations are sure to take place in the future in the area between Cachora and Choquequirao. And, as a result, my feelings are mixed. I hope that people recognize the immaculate beauty of this area and trek, but I also hope that the expansion and growth are done in a responsible way so as to respect the people and places that are already in the area: the inhabitants and business owners, including Julian and his family at their campamientos en route to the ruins.
All to often, almost always in fact, we see irresponsible economic growth take place in an area while disregarding the voice of the prior inhabitants of that area. What I would like to see take place in Cachora and Choquequirao is a respectful, integrous, and responsible expansion and growth. For example, instead of kicking Julian and his family's campamientos off the map, as was the promised method according to Julian, they should be allowed by the incoming entrepreneurs and government officials to stay on their land and to keep doing business and living their chosen lifestyle. At the same time, new businesses and services could be erected and run side-by-side those of the already present ones. This is a possibility, and not a difficult one to attain if the right individuals (leaders and managers) are involved in the process.
In closing, I must say that this trek was a hugely impacting experience on my life. It taught me that Nature is precious and should be protected and nourished by all means present. Also, I learned that lifestyles need to be respected, in spite of any "need" to expand and "progress" in whichever geographic area. I believe the most important thing I learned is that in order to learn about and experience a place, one must travel to it; and most preferably by foot, for it is by foot that one can connect with the Earth, and connect equally with the area's people.
Copyright Patrick Roseblade 2010.
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