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.
The first structure we came to upon entering Espiritu Pampa (the official name of the town) was a small, typical jungle house. Sitting on a porch inside of a fenced-in front yard were two men, a woman, and, presumably, their two small children. They, for reasons unknown, all stared awkwardly at us as Eddy and I approached the front white-picket gate to the yard. I eerily wondered: Were we surprising them with our arrival? It was hard to tell. Were they, living in such a far-off place, perhaps unaccustomed to receiving visitors?
Immediately, one of the men on the porch clumsily rose from his seat. I sensed formidable imbibing occurring, as he tipsily asked us about our long road in. His belligerence was thrice evident in his slurred speech, squinted look, and leglessly leaning stance.
I was apprehensive to respond. In most cases, I enjoy meeting locals, for they're usually the source of invaluable insights and fruitful company. Drunks, conversely, are those I invariably stray from, regardless of country-of-origin. And then it hit me: it was a Sunday afternoon, a prime time for excess spirit consumption.
It was also a Sunday afternoon on the 22nd of June, 1572. Having for weeks caught wind of the brutal and successful Spanish attacks in the Vitcos area and beyond, the Sapa Inca finally decided to evacuate quickly with a group of roughly 100. The next day, he and the Incas would move deeper into the nether reaches of the Vilcabamba jungle.
Tupac Amaru feared the inevitable, commenting to Uncle Huallpa, his trusted confindante: "Ahora es el momento. Su contingente es demasiado fuerte para luchar. Eventualmente podemos dividirnos en grupos para evitar la atención (Now is the time. Their contingent is too strong to fight. Eventually, we can break up into groups to avoid the attention)."
"Qué dirección recomiendas? (Which direction do you recommend?)" his uncle asked.
"Viajaremos a lo largo del Masahuay todo lo que podamos. Seguramente, nuestros distintos grupos confundirán a los españoles (We'll travel along the Masahuay River for as long as we can. Surely, our various groups will confuse the Spaniards)." the Sapa Inca declared.
Just then, a group of soldiers with torches ran past the Sapa Inca and his generals. They were clearly carrying out official orders.
Eddy was reticent to respond as well. Hesitantly yet calmly, the Huancacallan answered the mischievous one's question. "El camino fue largo, pero tuvimos buena suerte en el trayecto (The road was long, but we had good luck along the way)."
A short time later, having sensed my aloofness as I was still trailing off after Jose's tale, the same man became curious about me: my origin and reason for traveling without other gringos. While I spoke Spanish to and through Eddy, the intermediary between undrunk and drunk, the man was even more intrigued, as he was surprised to hear my high-level second-language ability despite my obvious native English-speaking country origins.
Thus, he asked me directly: "Cómo fue el viaje para ti (How was the trip for you)?"
I cracked my own shell, immediately lying in telling the man that our trip was quick and easy. Then, business-like, I mentioned that we were just looking for some water to purchase. Catching wind of my tense haste, the man recommended we have a seat, drink some beer with him and his friend, and relax after our long journey.
Eddy and I did so. After a few glasses of the local Pilsner, I inquired again: "Tienes agua para comprar (Do you have water to purchase)?" Again, the man coyly ignored my desperate question, opting instead to look over to his friend and smile, patronizingly.
I, unfortunately, was in a tough spot. I was still dying of thirst and was unable to communicate clearly and directly. Add to that, this disconcerting and uncomfortable company of the local drunks was wearing at my already-worn patience. Both men, curiously, were the representatives of the Cuzco Regional Cultural Agency and thus responsible for the well-being of both the Vilcabamba site and, ironically, the few tourists passing through this extremely rural site. How's that for serving the public? I continued to contemplate.
Luckily, just in the nick of time, Chuck's overarching story came back into play, saving me temporarily from the baddies.
Hurtado de Arbieto and Arias de Sotelo were livid upon their approach to Vilcabamba. After having descended the hundreds (or thousands?) of arduous giant steps from the prop up on Concevideyoc, the Spanish leaders infuriatedly cursed their luck. "Por Dios! (For the love of God!)" were the calls from the former to the latter, who met his cohort's frustrated eyes with a lamenting shake of the head.
Out of stride with the moment's tone, though symbolically important, the Spanish soldier, Gamboa, proudly planted the Spanish flag in what was the courtyard of the day-old smoldering relics of the former Neo-Incan capital. In spite of this adherence to formality, with subsequent short-lived Spanish celebration, there was most certainly much work to be done. There was no trace of the Incas, and each and every Spanish soldier and native ally knew that the terrain would only get grittier and muddier as they descended further north, along the deep river canyon.
Martín García Óñaz de Loyola was livid, too, when he entered the smoky ghost town of Vilcabamba. He, like the other hundreds of soldiers and leaders in the unified contingent, had spent the last three weeks either in combat or in taxing transit along a humid, unforgiving, and grueling road.
Arbieto scoffed to his cohorts, who included Óñaz de Loyola, "Ahora, desde aquí, montaremos el campamento. Necesito tres grupos reunidos para perseguir a los fugitivos (Now, from here, we'll set up camp. I need three groups assembled to pursue the fugitives)."
His cohorts heeded the demand. Within an hour, the plans were drawn. Óñaz de Loyola, probably the nephew of Ignatius of the same surname, was one of the selected leaders.
The future conqueror of Chile would, early the next morning, lead his group of seasoned soldiers out of the confines of the still smoldering city. The same stern look defining the formidable Basque's face said it all: to fail was not an option.
I, like the drunkards, was in no mood for games, either. So, I decided to press these assholes a bit more. Pulling out a twenty-dollar bill, I asked them the price of their bottled water. A look of saucy, sarcastic surprise on the face of the main asshole was followed by a cynical, blunt response: "No tenemos agua. (We don't have water)."
My silent shock and growing aggression followed, which, annoyingly, elicited a follow-up comment from the same asshole: "Pero, sí, tenemos Coca-Cola (But, we do have Coca-Cola)." The asshole tauntingly pointed to a two-liter bottle of Coke in his hand, while basking in his new-found power-hold.
I told him that I'd purchase the bottle of Coke. He quickly responded, "Déjame ver ese billete (Let me see that bill)."
I gave him the twenty. He took one glance at it and offered a cold response. "No lo puedo aceptar. No tiene valor (I can't accept this. It has no value)." The little old lady from Concevideyoc flooded back into my mind. Her haunting whispers from the town on the hill bombarded my attention anew. Old and new rejective responses cut straight to my gut, conjuring the same deep frustration and aggression from before.
My next move was lamentable. It's still hard to conceive that it even occurred. Unconsciously and senselessly, I reached for my iPod. And, pulling it out, I offered it to the man in what would be an extremely unequal exchange for a couple bottles of soda. The man mockingly reacted with a look of surprise on his face, full-well knowing he had just checkmated me. (Later, I found out from Eddy that the man was unaware of the type of object in my hand, though he could certainly estimate its value.)
Eddy wisely stepped in. The soda-for-something match was simply too uneven for him to not get involved. After some native negotiating, Eddy's concern was made clear. As the two men talked, I ventured away for a moment to yet another tale.
Birds sounded in still unpredictable rhythms and phrases. Monkeys seized the remainder of the sonic space with accompaniment added here and there by other forest fauna. For the outsiders to this place, identifying the symphony of the jungle was the last thing on loyalist Incan minds. Their biggest concern, once again, were the unfamiliar and unallied forest indians, especially those further downriver in and around the area of Momorí.
The watercourse of the Masahuay had been mostly smooth for the Sapa Inca and his group. The rafts they had constructed yielded few issues. However, it had been over a week since their hasty torching and of and evacuation from Vilcabamba, and the loyalist Incas felt that it best to travel overland from here on out. They, after all, had ventured over 150 meandering, wearisome river miles, which, they hoped, would have put them days' clear of the surely trailing Spaniards.
"Está en la curva de la izquierda. (It's up at the bend, off to the left.)" the forest native guide instructed. The series of rafts veered accordingly, with each eventually touching land one after the other.
"Estás seguro de que este es el mejor lugar para caminar? (Are you sure that this is the best place to walk it?)" One of Tupac Amaru's high officials firmly asked. The native guide took no time as he nodded in certainty.
As long as mouths didn't talk, the Incas figured their route should remain unknown, especially now after having just opted to travel on foot. In the dense confines of the jungle, there would be many more places to hide or deceive the enemies. In short, they could lose their enemies in the jungle; that's, of course, as long as they didn't lose themselves, first.
Prior to anyone getting lost, so as to ensure swift foot in unstable surroundings, they knew they could keep their large collection of gold and silver riches in concealed storehouses, near the water's edge. This would significantly lighten their load from here on out along the demanding forest trails and climes.
Inca Tupac Amaru chatted calmly with his high officials. The decision had been reached to go bipedal. One pressing concern remained, as he then turned to his pregnant wife. "Amor, podrás hacerlo a pie? (Sweetie, will you be able to make it on foot?)"
The infinite realm of the Amazon opened up to the loyalist Incan royal contingent. Traveling in this way would offer more possibilities, as they would find, for better or for worse.
In the meantime, a deal had been reached. Through the course of the one-minute mediation, while I tuned out, it turns out that Eddy promised the man that he'd send money via the Huancacalle-Vilcabamba route within the next week so as to even-out our soda debt. Fortunately, for the time being, my beloved iPod and, perhaps, my floundering respectability were salvaged.
The Arrival to Vilcabamba (and Espíritu Pampa)
Miraculously, I was able to calm myself down and gather sufficient patience to venture out to see the ruins of Vilcabamba. We had finally reached the touchstone of our journey, as José found his way into the scene.
Swift footsteps pounced on the forest floor, causing the only human action for miles-squared. Jumping stray branches and avoiding at all costs those annoying and atrocious prickly ones was of paramount concern for Uncle Huallpa's gifted chaski. The young man was living up to his Quechua name: Anca. Black Eagle. Courageous. Poised. Veiled. Cunning. And nimble.
The messenger's message certainly caused Anca to quicken his pace and extend his already near-void vigor. So fast was Anca's tempo that he took the Sapa Inca's perimenter guards by surprise, almost creating catastrophe. Fortunately, the imperial guards expertly held their clubs back upon the appearance of the black eagle. After all, the chaski and guards were close confidantes, and the late-day recognition by the latter of the former was thanks purely to years of familiarity.
Notwithstanding the haste-cum-shock, Anca continued his rush to the whereabouts of Tupac Amaru. In a delivery matching the young man's stride, Anca affirmed, "Gran Sapa. Su tío ha sido hecho prisionero. Sucedió esta mañana, en los alrededores de Changuiri (Great Sapa. Your uncle has been taken prisoner. It happened this morning, up around Changuiri)."
A pained sigh was followed by Tupac Amaru asking young Anca, "cómo sucedió? (how did it happen?)"
"Fue una emboscada (It was an ambush)" Anca replied, utterly distressed. "Eran demasiados. Estábamos indefensos, Gran Sapa (There were too many of them. We were defenseless, Great Sapa)."
Tupac Amaru and his wife feared the worst.
Walking up and back into the direction of the tucked-away Vilcabamba site, I breathed deeply, taking in the beautiful, teeming, verdant landscape. Numerous enchanting chacras were scattered about the open fields, placed like giant green-hued tiles on a large mosaic cut in two by the muddy trail.
Along the half-mile saunter up the mildly steep hill, Eddy and I finally stopped to check for ruins at a clearing on top of a hill. None were found. We then asked for directions from a passerby. "Las ruinas están a sólo unos minutos por el camino (The ruins are just a few minutes up the path)." Eddy and I were elated; the small yet historically intriguing site of Vilcabamba, the Lost Last Capital of the Incas, was, at last, within our reach.
The Spaniards' continued push along the tides of the Masahuey was full of constant surveilling. As the reduced contingent plus their native allies floated along the Vilcabamba region river, hundreds of anxious eyes constantly peered, on the lookout for either predator or prey: both forest indians or Incan fugitives were the cause for defense or offense in these continually exotic waters and lands.
After a week and change of scurried searching beyond the Vilcabamba center, the three large Spanish contingents had had great success in their finds. One group had just brought back Uncle Huallpa, cause for celebration by the masses of Spaniards. That same group later collected other relatives of the Sapa Inca and a few of his generals. Another group was lauded for their arrest of the late Titu Cusi's son, among others. The third group was able to ferret out numerous Incan soldiers and officials, along with a trove of precious metals.
Most were impressed with the short-term advances made by the trio of search parties. However, others weren't completely convinced. Once Óñaz de Loyola saw that the Sapa Inca and his wife weren't part of the celebrated captives brought back by his group or any of the others, he snapped at his subordinates. "De qué sirve todo esto, si capturan a los menores y no me traen a Amaru?! Lo haré yo mismo! Dame cuarenta soldados... ¡Nos iremos por la mañana! (What's the point of all of this, if you capture the lessers and fail to bring me Amaru?! I'll do it myelf! Give me forty soldiers... We'll leave in the morning!)
That night at the campsite, in contrast to the celebratory mood of the afternoon, tension and insatiability were as present as ever. The next morning, the driven, tactical master would set out with his select soldiers. This was the Basque leader's time to outshine and eclipse the others. His contingent would be hard to stop.
José's detailed retelling of history came clearly back to me.
Vilcabamba, though first developed by the Incas in the mid-15th century during Pachacuti's reign, was one of the sites chosen to be further developed by Manco Inca in 1537, when the pressure from the Spanish became too intense to continue anywhere close to the Sacred Valley. Vitcos, considered the first nucleus of the Neo-Incan State, was in tandem with Vilcabamba a center of Incan affairs from 1537 until the death of Titu Cusi in 1571.
The infiltration of the Spaniards in 1538, however, as far as Huayna Pucará, was the first scare for the Incas, alerting them that Vitcos was certainly accessible and vulnerable to Spanish offenses. Other events between the Spanish and Incas followed that solidified this reality for the Incas, thus inspiring the need for the jungle recesses of Vilcabamba as a necessary last retreat during the course of the Neo-Incan State experiment.
After having thought that the site at Vilcabamba was of Incan roots, I found out through José, intriguingly, that it wasn't. Relatively recent excavations at the Espiritu Pampa site, have uncovered a breakthrough in previously held knowledge. According to that Lima lecture (once again, translated in English for sake of brevity):
Patricio, this site was originally established by the Wari Culture, a society based in and around Ayacucho (hundreds of miles to the east of Espiritu Pampa) that lasted from approximately 450 AD to 1000 AD. Thus, the site at Espiritu Pampa has Wari structures mixed in with Inca structures, the latter having been (re)built around four centuries after the abandonment of the town by the Wari just prior to 1000 AD.
In particular, the Wari set up the site at Espiritu Pampa as a satellite, most likely as part of a string of sites off to the east of its nucleus in Huamanga (modern-day Ayacucho) that may have connected access to areas further north, east, and south, even as far as Tiwanaku, near Lake Titicaca. It certainly also connected the Wari with other groups in the jungle region as well, be it for war, for trade, or both.
Notable Wari ruins at the Espiritu Pampa site are four (likely five or more) "D"-shaped structures, a large rectangular platform, and numerous terraces centered around a plaza. Within the structures, various burials were found with ceramics of varying origins. Some were of Wari origin, like the Chakipampa style, locally-produced Cacaopampa style, and coastal style. In terms of metals collected, 75 bronze pieces were found; these included axes, spear hooks and bells, points, as well as tupus, or shawl pins.
Patricio! You remember Bri-yan Ba-wer, no? José asked.
I could only nod affirmatively, as the Professor continued.
Based on the work of Brian Bauer, et al., and others before and since, the Wari most likely had a similar social stratification in Espiritu Pampa/Vilcabamba) to that of the Incas. Specifically, the evidence provided by the remains of a high Wari official known as the Lord of Vilcabamba is telling of the presence of a kind of provincial governor, or Tucuyrico (literally, "he who sees all") as the Incas referred to their society's relative equivalent many-centuries later.
It is thought that the Wari probably had a similar third-tier official, who was responsible for tribute statistical supervision, tallying of who qualified to pay tribute and who no longer did, among other administrative responsibilities in this far-off provincial zone, away from direct observance by first- and second-tier officials many days' travel in westerly Huamanga.
For clarity, Patricio. "Vilcabamba" was the Quechua name given to the site by the Incas! Later, after the Spanish passed through, Espiritu Pampa was the opted-for name, definitely a play off of the Quechua name.
In terms of excavations of Incan structures at the site, Javier Fonseca Santa Cruz and Brian S. Bauer, et al., have done the recent hard work to uncover a much more complete understanding of the lay of the land and layout of the small jungle town.
José then provided me the following map, created by the famous explorer Vincent Lee. This map gives an idea of the size and organization of the Vilcabamba site.
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| (Vincent Lee) |
José then continued: The Vilcabamba site, as the map shows, is quite extensive. Bauer's research has provided an almost exactitude into the overall site, and, with a distinct focus on one of the two main centers of the site, Tendi Pampa.
Tendi Pampa was the Campa name given to the principal Incan center at Vilcabamba. Other names given to the large complex are 14 Windows, Bingham's Group, the Spanish Palace, Group 21, and Two Story Group. Tendi Pampa is the chosen name by the most recent and most pertinent researchers of the complex, Javier Fonseca Santa Cruz and Brian S. Bauer, et al.
The entire structure, which included 11 buildings, is thought to be the nucleus of Vilcabamba and is considered by some as the main temple; perhaps even the Vilcabamba version of the Temple of the Sun. If the latter is to be considered, then Tendi Pampa was to Vilcabamba what Cori'cancha was to Cuzco. These temples were thus the centers of the Neo-Incan State and the Incan Empire, respectively. And the sacred and symbolic source of the Empire.
A breakdown of the various "L"- and "U"-shaped buildings in the Tendi Pampa complex isn't necessary, but suffice it to say, Patricio, that a mix of buildings were used for food and chicha preparation, others for foodstuff storage and food vessel storage, others for large group festivities and rituals, and still others, likely, for a resting place for religious idols and mummies. All of the materials and presumed activities point to Tendi Pampa, as mentioned above, as being the Neo-Incan State's version of Cori'cancha, the Temple of the Sun.
As Eddy and I continued to inspect the site in silence, I could still feel the relics of the past speak to me as I sat on the ground in the presence of a series of circular stone structures. These were, I realized, the same structures that had come to me in my daydream along the road. Subtle smells of smoke arose, as my superimposed dream materials from earlier on along the trail added another dimension or two to my time-perplexing experience in the courtyard. Whispers from the past wafted in slowly from a northerly and surely native origin.
"No puedo seguir, mi amor. (I can't go on, my love.)" The royal wife confessed. "Ya no aguanto más. (I can't take anymore)."
Tupac Amaru only looked on, concernedly. Of course, there was no way he would ever consider abandoning his wife, for he, too, was feeling fatigue and the futility of venturing further into the menacing jungles of Momori. He couldn't avoid the sense that the end of the tenuous road was nearing.
Thoughts of home came back to the Sapa Inca. Of Vilcabamba most. What remained of the smoldering relics of his town? What, now, did his quaint, capital in paradise look like?
What happened, he wondered, to his close royal officials? He knew what sadly came of his beloved Uncle Huallpa, of course. But, what of his people? Surely, many must've died in the fighting. Either between the Chuquichaca Bridge and Vitcos. Or, especially, between Vitcos and here, way beyond Vilcabamba...
Tupac could only imagine the horrors of that fierce battle at Huayna Pucará. The fear. The struggle. The bravery of his men. Agonizingly, word came back that the affair was nothing less than an Incan bloodbath.
And what came of the others? He thought. Those he knew for certain who must've been caught by the ruthless Spaniards beyond the scorched capital, probably with the helpful hints and clues of whichever native tattlers could be forced to speak by the fierce Iberian predators.
Tupac Amaru feared the worst, specifically with respect to this last thought. The Sapa Inca ruefully intuited the closer-than-expected presence of the Spaniards, owing almost certainly to the Iberian's coercion (or not) of native jungle indians. He intensely eyed the forest, untrusting of its foreign confines. This was, he felt, a place so far from the comforts of his native jungle abode.
In spite of these paired feelings of futility and vulnerability, Tupac Amaru brought his wife close to him. He embraced her, as the two sat in a clearing at the base of a large tree. It was getting late. Thusly, the Sapa Inca motioned to his guards for support, resolving to make this their place of respite for the evening.
Luckily, some of the chaotic and hard-to-place visions and haunting dreams I'd had earlier in the day had now finally started to line up and make more sense. I assumed the other visual outliers would fit into the larger mosaic at a certain point as well.
Our short-lived pre-excavation tour of the Vilcabamba site was just what I needed, in the end. My formerly electric nerves had finally calmed for the first time in six hours. What followed was a sweet, necessary coming down into a grounded relaxation. Eddy and I then returned to the asshole's house.
By this time, refreshingly, the asshole had mellowed out. Having shapeshifted into reclaiming his role as husband and father of his cute wife and two lovely children, it was now easier to get through to him; just as it was probably easier for him to get through to me, given my similar emotional shapeshift.
Whilst in the same company of people from two hours' before, a 180-degree shift had brought about a much more pacific ambiance. So much so that as we chatted, I enjoyably played "peek-a-boo" with the little son and daughter as they ran around in the excitement of having visitors in their front yard. Eddy asked the man, Juan, if we could stay the night since it was now too late to press on. Juan, now much more conscious, cordially agreed, offering us a room in his home and dinner, as well.
Later that night, we enjoyed a relaxing visit and meal with the family. All, I'm proud to confess, went quite well. Dinner was delicious and consisted of rice, guinea pig, and yucca, along with, unsurprisingly, the ever-present and ever-flowing Coca-Cola. Juan, as it turned out, was actually an upstanding and kind-hearted man; such a distinction from a pair of hours before.
Later that night, we enjoyed a relaxing visit and meal with the family. All, I'm proud to confess, went quite well. Dinner was delicious and consisted of rice, guinea pig, and yucca, along with, unsurprisingly, the ever-present and ever-flowing Coca-Cola. Juan, as it turned out, was actually an upstanding and kind-hearted man; such a distinction from a pair of hours before.
Prior to bed, I thanked both Juan and his wife for their hospitality. In acknowledgement of the goings-on from hours before, I apologized, too, for my earlier bad attitude, explaining to the couple that our trek was quite arduous and my situation hugely intimidating and trying. They understood and, after I excused myself, wished both Eddy and me a good night sleep. My friend and I claimed our room, organized our sleeping bags, and each of us fell quickly to sleep.
My José- and Chuck-inspired visions were very vivid that night.
Branches crunched violently underboot. Mud-slips followed. And a few falls to ground, too, as the group of forty Spanish soldiers intently romped through the jungle, stopping at no time for reconsiderations or respite.
After having left their river rafts miles back, they followed the coerced guidance of the Chunco natives. The Iberians knew they were on the heels of the royal couple, having only recently been reduced from many to two, plus guards, after the Inca's uncle and other relatives had been found and captured just days' before.
The Spanish soldiers pushed on through the novel scapes of jungle, staying always vigilant to those paired, constant fears: of non-ally jungle indians and uncontrollable animal predators.
Around the onset of dark, the Iberians opted to set up camp for the evening, doing so in a simple, minimalistic fashion in knowing that the Sapa Inca and his wife probably weren't far.
Óñaz de Loyola intuited the close whereabouts of his adversary. That night, among the thick, humid jungle air, the cunning Basque leader hardly slept, opting instead to visualize the successful hunting down and seizure of the Sapa Inca and the resultant fall of the Incan Empire. What a vision this was. A quintessential conquistador dream. A veritable dream of the highest, most ambitious order.
De Loyola slowly affirmed in a trance's whisper, "finalmente han caído. Es para siempre nuestro! (They've finally fallen. It's ours, forever!)" A smile came to the conquistador's face as he dreamily celebrated Spanish glory.
Return to Forever
The rooster called early the next morning. I groggily awoke, unaccustomed to the chicken's repeated refrain of sound. I immediately looking over to my friend., whose subtle snore marked his undeterred, peaceful sleep. A life-long veteran of rural living, Eddy confirmed his experience and familiarity with this two-footed, quotidian alarm.
Once the rooster had fully unwound, I resolved to lay back down and take in the sounds of the calm, early morning in Espiritu Pampa. Then and there, I realized that I had seen some of the scenes in last night's dream a night or two before. The boots of Spanish soldiers crushing branches as they wildly pursued their human prey. All the lessons from Lima were starting to pay off.
I also caught a symphony of sounds as they arrived to my resting awareness. I heard water boiling in the neighboring kitchen, surely the makings of breakfast in early preparation. Four small feet pounced the area of floor just outside our room, certainly the doings of the two rambunctious tikes. A trio of male voices sounded off in the open-aired distance; most likely the discussions of native Vilcabambans entertaining the prospects of the day.
Amazingly, it's as if both Rafael and Jesus had exited from my mind. I could tell, because I didn't question these local men being narcos or criminals. And, also, the night before when Eddy and I were about to claim our room, no mention was ever made about whether the bed or beds were matrimonial or not! Here's to liberation from idiocracy!
As the early jungle morning mood manifested just beyond the spaced wood walls of Juan's family house, I concentrated on my breathing. I internally vowed to honor and be grateful for each moment of the day. For today, we were blessed: we had liquids, we had food, we had a shower, and we were on our way back to more populous pastures in the form of Quillabamba, the original starting-point city of this circular jungle adventure. Our target was to arrive to that city sometime later that night.
Eddy and I calmly packed up our things. We would, thankfully, be assisted by Juan and, luckily, Juan's mule, whose strong back would carry my pack along with his owner's belongings. This would be a wonderful weight off of my shoulders, for the brunt of the previous two days' toil owed to my backpack's hefty load.
From 7 a.m., our small entourage of three men and a mule mostly descended a lengthy series of muddy zigzags. Our eventual goal would be a destination some two hours' later, when we'd arrive at a make-shift truck stop, where a blue Toyota pickup truck would be waiting to fill its cargo bed with passengers coming from nearby towns.
Once we cleared the zig-zags and a couple of river crossings, we, around 8:45 a.m., reached the informal hub. There, a large group of locals stared either curiously, skeptically, or humorously at our arrival. The reason, I presume (maybe due to my being a self-conscious outsider): the arrival of the only gringo any of the locals had seen maybe in weeks or even months.
Ignoring the psychic noise of his countrymen, Juan promptly organized our trip with the portly driver of the blue pickup. Both Eddy and I, subsequently, climbed into the bed of the truck, where we'd share space with seven other standing passengers, all locals.
We said our goodbyes to Juan and his trusty mule, thanking him for all of their help along the way. As man and beast turned to start the ascent of the trail back to Vilcabamba, the blue pickup taxi began to move in a downhill direction. We braced ourselves, for more adventure awaited.
The rough ride consisted of muddy, meandering bends and taunting twists in this mostly mountainous terrain of jungle. As we swayed, always at the mercy of the doubly precarious ride and road, the rest of my dream returned to my awareness.
A soft rain fell on the muddy jungle floor, as García Óñaz de Loyola came to a slow, pausing, then abrupt wakefulness. He instinctually turned onto his side to inspect his surroundings. The forest was clear. And his immediate comrades were still asleep, as evidenced by their subtle snores.
Rising to prepare his armor and weapons, he noticed a pair of monkeys observing him from a tree branch many stories above. He smirked, having fallen for the forest's false-alarm, and moved on to wake his partners.
When reaching over to shake at one of his coronels, he noticed something in the distance.
His eyes widened, startled by the realization. With a muted voice, he insisted, "despiértate! (wake up!)."
As the coronel awoke, Óñaz de Loyola silenced him, bringing him nonverbally up to speed with the early-morning find, clear across the opening of jungle. Another pair of eyes-wide-open assessed the situation. Was it predator or prey? They wondered, instantly triggered into fight-or-flight.
Along the sloppy, bumpy road, we made periodic stops at villages, letting off and claiming singles and pairs of locals. After about one hour of mobile monotony, we relievedly reached the small town of Changuiri, which sat comfortably in the long, flat niche of a beautiful valley.
After unloading from the cargo bed, we solidified plans to take a transport truck to easterly-lying Quillabamba. Eddy and I were told by the truck's owner, who just happened to be the owner of the pickup, that the large truck would be leaving in approximately two hours. At that point it was 11:00 a.m. Therefore, the ETD (Estimated Time of Departure) from Changuiri, we surmised: 1:00 p.m.
In the meantime, we saw there was an organized soccer match being played across the way on the town's main square field. So, by way of trade with an agreeable store merchant, we finagled some water, a few beers, and some food, and made our way to some shade on the far side of the soccer field. There, while the local teams feverishly hashed it out, my friend and I enjoyed the fruits of our three days' efforts.
The game was vigorous and physical, to put it mildly. Each team played so roughly, in fact, that I questioned which prize was on the line on that Sunday at midday. Were they participating in a Copa Sudamericana or Libertadores early-round playoff? Probably not. Or perhaps even a national Peruvian competition? Or even regional match?
After some time, it was evident that that could never be the case. All jokes aside, it was clear that the two teams naturally (maybe frustratingly) resorted to aggression when their skills ultimately failed them. Nevertheless, Eddy and I contentedly cheered the footballing brutes on, as we patiently waited for our transport truck to be stocked and then loaded with passengers.
Two hours on, when the food had emptied and drink had dried, we thought it prudent to reinquire about the ETD. The owner, now even more portly than before, informed us that we would have to wait no more than one hour more, because an important delivery had been held up just outside of Changuiri. We agreed, promising to return in an hour's time. Accordingly, Eddy and I reassumed our still-warm spots on the far side of the soccer pitch, where we caught the start of the second game.
Posh Spice randomly appeared in my mind, as I thought back to Juanlu's exciting tale from Vista Alegre. That's great that David Beckham made it all the way out to these parts. I'm sure his journey must've been exactly what he needed at the time. However, what was wrong with this guy? I complained. Surely, marriage can be tough. Space between partners is always necessary. But, to leave her behind?
At the very least, had she been here now, I humored, these guys might start playing a lot better!
Back to the Changuiri action, we laughed as the two sides struggled to find any sort of rhythm. Their play was similar in quality to that of their predecessors, though these teams lacked their forerunners' quantity of meatheads. Of course, the art and science of football/soccer is much easier analyzed than performed. So, bearing this in mind, I proceeded to keep the large stock of hearted laughs mostly between Eddy and myself.
Within a few minutes, however, my lack of sleep from the nights before and the day's heat caught up to me. Lying comfortably on my side whilst shaded from the piercing Changuiran sun, I swiftly faded away.
Curious monkeys looked on from their high tree-branch perch, as they relished the drama that transpired on the jungle floor, far below.
The other two coronels, having caught impending drift, silently shifted onto their sides to snatch a glimpse of Óñaz de Loyola's find. Just then, a group of distant shadows scurried off to the obscured right.
The Iberians directly leapt to their feet. Grabbing weapons and nothing more, they heatedly pursued their human prey. Could this be the final chapter of the imperial game of chase?
Captivated monkeys wondered who would win the game of chase.
Deeper in the forest, the Sapa Inca led the way, in a direction that took the royal couple down a steep decline. The winded wife, struggled, holding her pregnant belly tightly as she ran her fastest pace.
Looking back to tend to his wife, a fatiguing Tupac Amaru slipped on a patch of mud, bringing both himself and his wife down into the slop. As the two struggled to regain their footing on what seemed to be an interminable swath of sodden earth, they, hardly a few paces on, slipped abruptly to the mud-soaked earth, anew.
In this moment of unintentional respite, Tupac's wife sunk closely in to her husband. Dire thoughts compounded the minds of them both: time was shortening; and their options were narrowing. This dreadful, futile feeling inundated the nerves and sinews of body, mind, and soul.
Closing in on the one-hour wait, our truck still appeared to be in no shape to depart. Eddy and I walked over to the truck to ask the stalling owner again. And, upon receiving the same response, though this time without an ETD, I, particularly, was losing my patience.
Closing in on the one-hour wait, our truck still appeared to be in no shape to depart. Eddy and I walked over to the truck to ask the stalling owner again. And, upon receiving the same response, though this time without an ETD, I, particularly, was losing my patience.
Eddy asked the owner, "Podemos ayudar a cargar el camión para acelerar el proceso? (Could we help load the truck to speed up the process?)" "Claro. Vamos, pues (Sure. Let's go for it)." The owner replied.
Eddy and I, plus a few other eager passengers, helped load bags of achiote seeds, a bag of another seed, and infinite bunches of bananas onto the truck. Within 45 minutes, the huge truck was filled to its brim and beyond with these jungle products. Yet, after just having labored pro bono in the blistering jungle sun, per the readied truck's owner, still no ETD.
Eddy and I, plus a few other eager passengers, helped load bags of achiote seeds, a bag of another seed, and infinite bunches of bananas onto the truck. Within 45 minutes, the huge truck was filled to its brim and beyond with these jungle products. Yet, after just having labored pro bono in the blistering jungle sun, per the readied truck's owner, still no ETD.
We pleaded with the owner to get things rolling. Seemingly adding to the delay, he had, by this time, had a few beers as his attention seemed drunkenly scattered. He joked with us, asking me, "por qué has venido a estos lugares? (Why have you traveled to these parts?)" I laughed, superficially, offering him a fabricated response. He loosely laughed, reassuring us: "No se preocupan, amigos. Nos iremos muy pronto (Don't worry, friends. We'll be leaving very shortly)."
Eddy and I turned away from the fat, drunk truck owner. Unimpressed with the proceedings, we opted to have another beer.
After doing so, miraculously, more passengers started arriving. We, too, quickly finished our beers and climbed into the back of the almost full truck, etching out a space on top of a pair of achiote bags and next to large bunches of bananas. In another half-hour the engine started. Fifteen minutes later, we were off.
While big truck wheels rolled down the dry dirt of the easterly traveling trail, I tranced out.
In a deep ravine, now miles from the tides of the Masahuey, the Iberians had reached their find. Those surveilling, moving shadows from the morning had been chased for an hour.
What the Spaniards thought to be human prey, ended up being natural allies in the form of Manari men. Local forest indians and adversaries to the Incas who held important news of the possible location of the royal couple.
The native men readily informed the Spaniards that the Sapa Inca and his wife had traveled north at the cross-trail split just a mile ahead. The soldiers, needless to say, were elated. From here on, the group of Iberians, thanks to their new ally natives, were now guided by infinitely greater forest awareness and tact.
The Manari were masters of this forest. They could read near perfectly where the Incan intruders went, based on scent, foliage indentations, and the natural flow of the trail. Notwithstanding the many miles the land search lasted, the Spanish expedition was revitalized, while gaining momentum through these formerly confusing, dangerous lands.
Meanwhile, utter fatigue, terrible hunger, and failing hope haunted the Sapa Inca's wife as she came to an abrupt stop. Her husband, who'd been out front for some time, intuitively sensed this and pivoted back.
"Eso es todo. No puedo ir más (That's it. I can't go any further)." Tupac Amaru embraced his wife, while silently agreeing to find a place to rest for the evening. The routine and route were becoming redundant. Perhaps, Tupac Amaru thought, a fire would help build morale and offer them the warmth needed to relax after yet another day of fugitivity.
As Tupac Amaru peered into the fire's flames, he sensed scant possibilities in the forever horizon-less beyonds of the deep Vilcabamba jungle.
A raucous of tire-to-pothole rocked me awake and shook the transport truck to its elderly bones. Soon after, once having steadied my bearings, I rapped briefly with a neighboring local man. However, I opted to make the conversational cut early due to the noise of the rocky road and for sake of soothing my reemerging frustration with all things Peruvian.
This included: approximated schedules, including their loose ETAs and ETDs; currency issues, including the lack of ATMs in rural jungle areas; drinking problems, by slim and fat, especially on Sundays and Mondays; and whatever else I could negatively focus on in that moment. This tension and negativity eventually spilled over along the road. It was an event that, even today, I deeply regret having happened.
About five hours through the eight-hour truck trip, the, then, incredibly drunk truck owner switched positions from the passenger's seat in the truck's cab to the cargo bed, with the rest of the passengers.
After a few minutes of conversing in the dark with a few acquaintances, the drunk man patronizingly addressed me: "Hey, gringo. Cómo te va? Todo bien? (Hey, gringo. How are you doing? Is everything okay)?" Instantly infuriated, I opted not to respond.
After a silenced pause, the drunkard inquired further, "Gringo, me escuchas?! (Gringo, do you hear me)?!" I held my tongue, for I knew what would come out of my mouth would be ugly and unnecessary.
The stubborn man matched my stubbornness, "Ahh...No quieres hablar conmigo? (Ahh... You don't want to talk to me?" This time I responded, and I did so, emphatically. "Borracho, por que hay muchas paradas? Todos estamos esperando (Drunkard, why are there so many stops? All of us are waiting - to get on with it)!"
The fat man uproariously yelled, "Carajo (fucker or prick)!" He followed this up wildly with something I couldn't quite make out. An uncomfortable, stark silence ensued, as he and I continued our duel, quietly. In spite of our altered states, his being drink-inspired, mine being anger-inspired, the draw was probably the most favorable result for all involved.
Somewhere along silence's course, the man eventually, and luckily, fell asleep, as evidenced by his chaotic, sonorous snoring. Considering that we still had about three hours to reach Quillabamba, I attempted to follow his pathetic lead.
The rest of the ride continued in discomfort, all the more given my imprudent outburst. In retrospect, Eddy and I were probably very fortunate to have stayed on the truck. If we had been kicked off, we would've been really in the thick of it, given the remaining distance to Quillabamba from our location in the rural, easterly jungle. Miraculously for me (/us), in retrospect, the owner wasn't into escalating the matter further. Thus, for the time being, our ticket to ride was extended.
Along the nondescript journey, given the plain dark of night, I couldn't help but drift to sleep.
That night, Tupac dreamt of anything and everything. Immediately, what stood out most was the shocking arrival of his father, Manco Inca. Tupac was breathless as he looked into his father's eye for the first time in 34 years.
Wanting to soak up this important opportunity, father and son walked together through the lush Vilcabamba forest, up beyond the center of the citadel. Once having reached their favorite waterfall, the men paused for a moment, as the late Inca affirmed to his son, "I'm so proud of you."
Manco then turned squarely to Tupac, holding his son, warmly, by the shoulders. "You took a stand when you needed to. And, for that, I'm really proud of you."
Tupac took a deep breath, as he continued to hear his father out. "Really! At what point is the disrespect too much ?!" Tupac nodded, knowingly, as he allow his father's words to sink in.
The two recommenced their leisurely walk along the jungle path, as both men relished the sensation of having been reunited. Manco again uttered something to Tupac. The latter tried repeatedly to make out what his father was saying. But, it's as if Manco's voice had been muted. His father then vanished from view.
Tupac's struggle to comprehend lasted a few tense moments, up until the arrival of another relative: Tupac's half-brother, Titu Cusi. The two siblings smiled brightly as they instantly rekindled their always-vibrant chemistry together. Tupac was shocked to see his brother again, as it had been just under a year since his brother's unexpected death in Vitcos.
"Brother, look what happened to me?!" Titu Cusi affirmed. "You know how I was always hopeful of co-existence with them." Tupac nodded to his older brother., who continued, "had I not gone, they would've found a way to off me."
To this, Tupac then retorted, "I know. And why do you think I cut off the border at Chuquichaca, Brother?! After you left, I couldn't trust any of them, any longer."
The brothers continued their walk, now, down into the (pre-evacuation) main plaza of Vilcabamba. There, at the perimeter of Tendi Pampa, they stood in amazement by what they and their people had etched out in such inhospitable territory. There were so many stories and memories held within the expanse of complexes and buildings on the main plaza of the small city.
Others were there to greet the men, as well, including the more recent Sapa Incas to their people. It was like a reunion of all those who had passed over the past few decades. Sayri Tupac. Manco Inca. Huascar. All of the wives, cousins, generals, and high officials through the years were on hand, too, as they greeted Tupac Amaru, cordially.
These tender moments with his loved ones and role models were unspeakably special for the current Sapa Inca. With so much instability going on in his waking reality, circa 1572, the presence of his family and friends in spirit form was reassuring and nurturing, in the end.
Just then, Manco approached his Sapa Inca son, and uttered the same words from before. Unfortunately for Tupac, he still was unable to comprehend his father's words. He asked his father to repeat himself, but the response was still muted, as Tupac desperately tried to understand.
I startledly awoke, when the truck drove heavily over the cobblestone streets of Quillabamba's main plaza. It must've been around midnight, and I wasn't sure where that dream had come from. It was almost official: the four-day circular walking, waiting, and riding game had finally played itself out.
As this realization set in, a feeling of ecstasy flooded through me. Still lingering betwixt and between, I also wondered what it was that Manco Inca had said to his son, the current Son of the Sun. But, frustratingly, I, too, was unable to discern the late Sapa Inca's words. At which point, the huge truck finally came to a stop, just a block up from the main plaza.
Opting not to inform Eddy nor the truck's owner of my intentions, I immediately grabbed my bag and left to find the nearest ATM. Thus, over the next twenty minutes, to the annoyance of those just mentioned, I raced to track down money. After my successful withdrawal, I promptly sought out the separated whereabouts of both friend and foe.
First, I located my foe. Luckily, he had mellowed out, surely after having slept restfully. He also accepted a deserved apology from me, after I explained that the road had been an intense one. He accepted my payment and told me that Eddy was concerned as to my whereabouts. I wished him well, as he laboriously climbed into the large truck's passenger's seat.
As the truck noisily rode away, I recommenced my search for my unintentionally estranged friend and trail guide.
Reunited yet it Feels so Surreal
A brief search through numerous, darkened Quillabamban blocks yielded a relieved reunion. Approaching one another, Eddy asked, annoyedly, "A dónde fuiste? (Where did you go?)" I brushed off his frustration with an apologetic something, after which we resolved to find a hostel.
A brief search through numerous, darkened Quillabamban blocks yielded a relieved reunion. Approaching one another, Eddy asked, annoyedly, "A dónde fuiste? (Where did you go?)" I brushed off his frustration with an apologetic something, after which we resolved to find a hostel.
Soon after, we thought it fitting to celebrate the completion of our circle through the jungle with a midnight meal. Lucky for us, there were food carts still open and operating a few feet away in the main plaza.
One cart stood out from the others, as we eagerly joined a man who was already there with beer in hand. Within moments of ordering a local Quillabamban delicacy, the man brashly inquired, "Qué hacen ustedes aquí en Quillabamba? (What are you two doing here in Quillabamba?)" One sound from the terse, rosy-faced man, and we knew he was very drunk. We immediately felt uneasy.
Eddy explained that we had just arrived back from a long trip to Vilcabamba. The man, in the beginning, appeared to be very impressed. However, his demeanor quickly changed.
One cart stood out from the others, as we eagerly joined a man who was already there with beer in hand. Within moments of ordering a local Quillabamban delicacy, the man brashly inquired, "Qué hacen ustedes aquí en Quillabamba? (What are you two doing here in Quillabamba?)" One sound from the terse, rosy-faced man, and we knew he was very drunk. We immediately felt uneasy.
Eddy explained that we had just arrived back from a long trip to Vilcabamba. The man, in the beginning, appeared to be very impressed. However, his demeanor quickly changed.
The man began to tell Eddy about the danger of bringing a gringo through this area and that if we were to run into the wrong people that we should have reason for concern. He then identified himself as one of those people. Eddy turned to me with a fearful look on his face. I got the gist, even though I didn't understand the majority of what the man was saying given his drunken, coastal-slanged Peruvian Spanish. Rafael rushed front-and-center back into view. His words came quickly: Don't o out at night. You might not come back!
Eddy and I intuitively chose to finish our food quickly, pay, and make our way back to our hostel. The man, on the other hand, had different ideas. He reached for something from behind him. In that moment, time stood still, as I (and, surely, we) entered into a surreal spatial void. This was exactly the situation that I feared during my initial stay in Quillabamba, after having read extensively about the acute narcotrafficker presence and problem in the high-jungle city.
Pulling out something from his back pocket, the man made our hearts skip a beat. The object was finally revealed: it was his bulky black wallet. As he opened it up to reveal an unestimatable wad of one-hundred U.S. dollar-bills, he told Eddy (and me, indirectly), "Soy de Tingo Maria, cabrones. No quieren joderme! (I'm from Tingo Maria - a notorious drug-related/involved area in the jungles of central Peru -You don't want to fuck with me!)" The sociopath continued, "Sabes lo que hacemos con los gringos como él? (Do you know what we do with gringos like him - referring to me?) No response was given. The man went on. "Les pedimos un rescate o hacemos algo más con ellos. (We hold them for ransom or we'll do something else with them.)"
The man then glared at me. Evilly. Violently. He continued to explain in a taunting manner while peering through me. "Por qué te quedas tan callado, Gringo? (Why do you stay so quiet, Gringo?)" I acted like I didn't understand him, only shaking my head and looking over to Eddy, who supported me by explaining to the man, "no habla mucho español y no puede entender nada de lo que dices. (he doesn't speak much Spanish, and he can't understand anything you are saying.)"
The man grew frustrated, laughing crazily as he lifted his head to the sky. Then, his head fell abruptly, immediately turning back again in my direction. "Espero que sepas que estoy armado, así que debes tener mucho cuidado conmigo (I hope you know that I'm armed, so you need to be very careful with me)." I got that part, and, in that moment, that's when this surreal episode got real. I could think of nothing more than to pray; I repeatedly asked God for help that this hostile situation be resolved peacefully, and that we return to our hostel in one piece.
Moments later, on my blessed last bite of food, I straightaway asked the woman for the bill. She calmly told us the price. We payed, thanked her, and hastily left. The man, obviously not in the mood to make a larger scene on that specific night, barked a few more unattractive things in his Lima-speak. We countered with our feet, as his progressively incoherent voice faded into the background.
Even though our hostel was only one minute away on foot, we decided to catch a rickshaw on the opposite side of the plaza so as to decoy our intended destination.
Once inside the hostel, my friend and I sat, uncomfortably, fearful, pensive. We worried about the man, wondering what his limits were. Would he seek us out? And if so, would he bring others? Taking it a step further: what would happen in the morning?
Needing to verbalize to eject some of the nerves, I told Eddy extensively about Rafael, his Saab, his castle, and his stupid lasting words. Words which were no longer so stupid.
From there, deep breathing mandatorily ensued. It was only at the point of utter surrender that I finally let go of those fatalistic possibilities, opting instead for a graceful, peaceful solution. My previous night spent in Quillabamba had me worried sick about cockroaches. This time, surreally, I really feared my life to be on the line.
Despite the danger and doom, both of us fell asleep quite easily that night, thanks to our acute psychophysical fatigue. Later that night, from somewhere while in tranquil trance, the recurring dream recurred.
An anomaly of sorts occurred when Óñaz de Loyola and his subordinates paused in their fervid pursuit of all things Incan. Their days on end of breakneck speed had instantly downgraded to a snail's pace, as smiles came to each of the Iberians' faces. They were now certain that their fevered, many-day chase was at once over.
"Parad! (Stop!)," An unnecessary order, taking the royal couple by surprise, as they warmed themselves in front of their evening fire. "No intentes escapar! Ninguno de los dos saldrá herido. (Don't try to escape! Neither of you will be hurt.)"
Even to the already desperate and semi-resigned royal couple, the pace of the arriving Spanish soldiers must've felt like a surreal playing out of an anticipated, inevitable reality in slow-motion. Only a look of blank shock marked the faces of Tupac and his wife. That feared, imminent outcome had come to be.
Óñaz de Loyola's assistant, in typical Spanish formality, then commenced the recitation of the viceroyal order. "Por órdenes del Virrey del Perú, Francisco de Toledo, y del Rey de España, Felipe II, debemos arrestarle a Ud., Inca Tupac Amaru, y a su esposa, fugitivos, acusados de ordenar la muerte de Atilano de Anaya y su séquito. También se os acusa de las muertes de Fray Diego Ortiz y Martin Pando, sin juicio previo. (From orders of Viceroy of Peru, Francisco de Toledo, and the King of Spain, Phillip II, we must arrest you, Inca Tupac Amaru and your wife, fugitives, accused of ordering the deaths of Atilano de Anaya and his entourage. Also you are accused of the deaths of Fray Diego Ortiz and Martin Pando, without proper trial.)"
Tupac Amaru could only stare into the distance, noticeably more gutted than before.
Óñaz de Loyola himself stepped forward, and declared, "tenemos una lista de otros delitos como prueba contra Ud. (We have a list of other offences as evidence against you.)"
The Sapa Inca subtly nodded in recognition of the words of Óñaz de Loyola, maybe due to the Spanish captain's obvious leadership status. Maybe because it was time to acknowledge defeat.
The Basque official ended by firmly asking, "Acepta Ud. entrar en nuestra custodia? (Do you agree to enter into our custody?)"
Then, in yet another surreal scene, a trio of Spanish soldiers aggressively seized Tupac Amaru and his pregnant wife. In that moment, the Neo-Incan State and, more broadly, the Incan Empire officially ceased to be.
Dude! Where's my iPod?!
In the morning, I woke and rose first. Eager to get a move-on, I took a brief shower as I pondered: I internally apologized to Rafael, for he, in spite of his absurdities and pomp, was right. Quillabamba, at least in my late-night scenario, had been as dangerous as he vehemently cautioned.
After that, I packed and readied my bag. Eddy, probably wanting to enjoy his first hostel bed in some time, eventually caught up to me. And, within twenty minutes, we left our night's safe haven on foot en route to the Quillabamba bus terminal.
Whilst we briskly walked, we briefly talked of the unreal occurrence from the night before. We agreed that we had been fortunate to escape safely. Accordingly, since we were still in the same narco setting, we kept a keen eye out for any suspect characters along the road. I proffered: it was daytime, not night. So we should be safe.
Prior to reaching the terminal, we stopped off at the hostel I had slept at during my initial stay in Quillabamba. I picked up my jacket from the same ornery, aloof kid, thanked him and left.
At the terminal, I would catch my bus back to Cuzco, while Eddy would accept his complete payment from me and stay in Quillabamba for a few days of R&R. After buying my bus ticket to Cuzco, the last-leg of my journey, we found lobby seats to wait out my bus's departure in an hour's time.
While eating a late breakfast, Eddy and I reflected back on our trip through the hallowed jungles of the Vilcabamba Region. I thanked him for his patience and assistance in everything. Without his help, I would've surely felt unsure and amiss in such a novel place.
Our attentions shot back reminiscently, nostalgically over the three days of adversities and adventures. So many memories and stories to reconsider. If only José could see me now.
The Iberian-allied, native messengers had been sent in advance. Equally nimble and sound-shaped as the loyalist chaskis, like Anca, the new imperial royal runners continued the job, albeit with different bosses.
Within a half-day, the official missive had been delivered to Arbieto and Sotelo in the ash-replete courtyards of Vilcabamba. The same native messenger continued his run, climbing the staircase of death up to the prop at Concevideyoc, and beyond, in the ascending direction of Vitcos. He would, however, be relieved of his duties near Huayna Pucara, the site of those two important, opposite-outcome battles of 1538 and 1572.
Meanwhile, Arbieto, Sotelo, & Co. rejoiced at the best news they'd heard in their careers. They and their subordinates promptly prepared the town for the arrival the next morning of the procession of prisoners.
As for the spread of news, within two more days, the missives destined for Cuzco would arrive. The Corregidor and other high Spanish officials would surely bask in delight of the transpirations in the jungle. In due course, a missive specifically destined for Lima and Francisco de Toledo would be drafted and subsequently and eagerly sent.
I wanted to make sure I had all my things prepped for my eight-hour ride back to Cuzco. As I checked, there was one, cherished accompaniment I couldn't locate: my relished generator of sound and rhythm: my iPod!
In the crowded confines of the Quillabamba terminal, I searched, frantically, for my music player. After five minutes of ransacking my bags, there was still no sign of it. I asked Eddy, who said I may have left it at the hostel. He offered to go and look. I accepted.
While I waited, I had a feeling that I wouldn't be holding my iPod again. It seemed that either Juan, the man from Espiritu Pampa, took it. Or, more directly, Eddy himself. Whoever it was, I was certain it wasn't in the hostel.
Upon Eddy's return, his response confirmed my suspicion: no sign of my iPod. I asked him if he had checked his bags. He denied having it anywhere, as he showed me every angle of his bag as proof.
Upon Eddy's return, his response confirmed my suspicion: no sign of my iPod. I asked him if he had checked his bags. He denied having it anywhere, as he showed me every angle of his bag as proof.
I thought back to our trip. The last memory of my iPod was when it was stowed away in my bag after which Juan tied it to the back of his mule in Vilcabamba. Thusly, I internally questioned whether both Eddy and Juan had possibly conceived and carried out a plot to snatch it from me.
I briefly entertained the idea ringing in my inner ear of aggressively pouncing at Eddy in Jesus-like manner and delivery, but I resolved to accept the material setback.
In any event, the iPod was gone. But, to my utter joy, we were safe and sound, having survived myriad challenges and hardships to Vilcabamba and beyond. I thanked Eddy again for everything, assuring him that one day I would return.
I was a bit saddened to leave in spite of only having spent three-and-a-half days together. As evidenced, Eddy and I ventured into not only the deep retreats of the Vilcabamba Region, but also of the Incan Empire, hitting on some chaotic emotional and physical vicissitudes along the road. Eddy and I went our separate ways, as I nostalgically climbed onto the bus, destined for Cuzco.
While the bus ascended the zigzags on the Quillabamba outskirts, I thought back to the emotional adventure that laid behind me. All of those short-lived recreational hardships: from twisting ankles to making important decisions; from waking at three in the morning to having an expanded breakfast before departing on a full-day's trip through the humid, hot jungle; from being denied our attempted barters to barely eking-out the acquisition of water and beer. With all of this in mind, and heart, it was time to ascend the Andes.
The approach to Vilcabamba was brutally devastating for the Sapa Inca. In a sense, the ashes and relics scattered through the former plaza were symbolic of the state of the Neo-Incan State, and the Inca Empire, more broadly. It was over. And everyone knew it. This caused him horrific pain. A pain that only death could release, if even then.
As Tupac Amaru, his wife, and a handful of high officials were marched along the smoky remains of the former capital, under strict guard of spear, the Sapa Inca recalled the years he spent living in this jungle paradise. Accenting these rich, moving memories were images of his dream from the night before. He, strangely felt the presence of his recent ancestors there with him.
Even though he had only been the Sapa Inca for less than two years, following the death of his half-brother, Titu Cusi, Tupac Amaru was fiercely and proudly rooted in his heritage and pedigree. A lineage that was now in its waning moments.
He immediately peered over to his Spanish capturers; those bearded men and savage invaders he held complete contempt for. Who, over the last four decades had caused so much hardship, death, and destruction to his family, his people, and his empire.
The climbing walk up past Huayna Pucará and, eventually, Pampaconas, those places of so much Incan bloodshed, would be equally traumatizing for Tupac Amaru. He could subtly hear the futile calls of his soldiers when the prospects of the battle and their lives faded.
His arrival to Vitcos was the last straw for the Sapa Inca. It tore his heart out. From then and there, staring up at Rosaspata, that sparkling jewel on the divinely propped hill, he knew it would be the last time he'd set eyes on his home.
I felt a black cloak of emotion and stress wrapped around me. This bus ride was thus an opportunity to shed this shadow of difficulty and discomfort from me. Even though I enjoyed large parts of the journey, I, for the better part of it, was quite miserable, especially when having to live far outside of my comfort zone. Fortunately, I was now returning to my comfort zone, namely, in the basin of Cuzco.
I wondered about what others before me had experienced along this route.
The beatings and torture along the road to Cuzco were ruthless and barbaric. Tupac Amaru witnessed each of his five remaining officials being beaten with clubs and other Spanish torture objects. He even suspected that one or two of his confidantes had died prior to arrival to the capital. But, given his isolation from the others, it was hard to tell.
Tupac Amaru wondered how the Spaniards could do such acts. And to do so before even putting his officials on trial? In a hard stroke of 16th century reality, in such rural colonial territories, Tupac knew that there didn't exist oversight to these callous Spanish actions. After all, he, too, knew how empires worked.
Could things get any worse for the Sapa Inca & Co.? Even though he considered himself the walking-dead, the short answer was: yes.
The road was bleak, as the procession of the captured continued slowly toward the basin of Cuzco.
Back in Cuzco: Opposite Destinies
My road back to Cuzco, however, was calm and satisfying. Passing through Chaullay, near the ancient Chuquichaca Bridge, I gave an internal wave to the westerly-lying Huancacalle and, thus, Vitcos. I, too, was saying a goodbye of sorts to the Vilcabamba Region and my three-and-a-half day journey around its domain. In a way, it was also a goodbye to the former, three-and-a-half decade home of the Neo-Incan State.
From my seat on the spacious bus, I wondered how Tupac Amaru, his wife, and the high officials were feeling as they, circa August, 1572, headed toward the former Incan capital, and, what was then, the former capital of the Spanish Viceroyalty. The capital, after all, had three decades earlier been moved from the hard-to-access Cuzco to coastal Lima.
The still-youthful Inca and some of his trusty officials, outside of the older ones, hadn't had the opportunity to ever call Cuzco their home. They, after all, had been raised in either Vitcos or Vilcabamba. So, in a sense, the road to Cuzco was a novel experience for them, a return to the home of their fathers, mothers, and other ancestors of decades' and centuries' past.
The arrival at Machu Picchu, and, later, Ollantaytambo, was bittersweet for the Incan procession. Their ancestors, namely Pachacuti & Co., had created a veritable masterclass in architectural concept and execution. The terraces alone were enough for days' of retreat in grateful observance of the genius of ingenuity. Not to mention, the sacred temples, homes, and other structures of either illustrious site.
Stories came back to mind of battles fought over the previous decades against the Spanish, as well as ancient stories of their conquering of smaller, local groups. The latter was a necessary strategic move to solidify control of the Incan Empire in the Cuzco Region. These battles helped form a foundation to eventually stringboard to the north, south, east and west of the Andes Mountains. This, after all, was how Tahuantinsuyo was created, expanded, and solidified.
Descending the Andean wall which is Highway 28 B, back to the haunts of the Duke, I couldn't help but reflect on the entire day when I met Rafael, a year back with my girlfriend, Magaly. The discomfort, the strangeness, the genius, and the rarity that this guy was. Given my sitch the night before in Quillabamba,
I had, unsurprisingly, a new respect for this man. I knew I could no longer berate him for being such an odd human, for his contribution in terms of warning wasn't heeded. In short, my guard dropped, and after having dismissed his caution, his fervent warning came to fruition. Thusly, I thanked Rafael for his insight and wisdom. (I can't believe I just said that....)
My exhilarating ride continued up the southern wall of the Sacred Valley in the bus's ascent to eventual Chinchero. There, Jesús flooded my mind. After all, it was here that we had spent time camping outside of the Maras area. Jesús's pungent perfume now hit me, overwhelming my senses, as a smile came to my face. I reflected nostalgically on the adventure that Eddy and I had just had: all of the stories and images of this majestic trek, the hardships, and scares, and, most lasting of all, the comradery felt between Eddy, me, and others with whom we shared.
And, later, on the descending return into the basin of Cuzco, I affirmed that it was a roundtrip for the history books. Along the slanted road down into the city, Professor Walker's recounting of the arrested Sapa Inca's march to Cuzco was front-and-center in my mind.
The hills of uchu grass surrounding the city of Cuzco had dried weeks ago. Its dormancy was a symbolic expression of the current situation faced by all Incan loyalists in late September, following the capture of their Son of the Sun. Since then, all loyalist souls fervently cried for mercy.
Descending the zig-zaggy road into Cuzco was another bittersweet moment for the Sapa Inca and his remaining officials. The prospects were dire and the road in had been arduous, if not horrifying. Notwithstanding the emotionally punishing sentiment of the past few weeks, Tupac Amaru & Co. had particular interest in seeing Cuzco, which was, for most, their first glimpse into their lauded and beloved heartland.
All of the anticipated landmarks were within view, albeit in slightly altered states, given the Spanish territorial propensity for defacing Incan structures to prop Iberian buildings atop. As the prisoner procession proceeded, Tupac Amaru could see through the destruction and newness, into a deeper view that transcended time.
He compared what he witnessed with his imaginations from stories he had heard as a child, especially from his father, Manco Inca. These internal images were further conceived with stories from his adolescence and into his twenties and thirties under the, then, leadership of Sayri Tupac and Titu Cusi.
All of those legendary, sacred structures came into full view for him, in spite of more recent Spanish destruction. The temples, governmental buildings, markets, and homes, perfectly organized and designed to form the shape of the sacred puma. Tupac's imagination took off, as he relished in what the city looked like during the centuries of Incan reign prior to the arrival of the Iberians.
Once Inca Tupac Amaru arrived in the Plaza de Armas, he came back down to earth. So as to escape attention from loyalists within the city, guards led him straight to his prison cell, where he would await the next move. This brought with it a hard dose of reality for the Sapa Inc, now official prisioner of the Spaniards.
To review, the Sapa Inca had been informed that he was accused, along with his other officials, of having indiscriminately killed Friar Diego Ortiz and Martin Pando. Added to this were the murders of two ambassadors, one being Atilano de Anaya. Tupac Amaru, in spite of wanting a fair trial for himself and his officials, knew that he was in a tenuous situation.
The Sapa Inca was beside himself when, days later, word came of the quick trials given to his officials, and their sentence of death by beheading. He, too, knew then that his fate would follow a similar path.
There were some, though, who attempted to raise an issue with Spanish official. The clerical calls for a fair trial after the Sapa Inca's transport to Spain were notable. There were a few within the ranks of government as well. Weeks later, too, the King of Spain himself, along with many others in the Motherland, would raise their voices in disdain for the hasty calls for execution.
However, per expectation, and despite the immediate arguments for fairness, Tupac Amaru's sentence was upheld and delivered: beheading in front of the Santo Domingo Church on September 24, 1572.
Incan tears already shed incessantly all throughout the Andes. It should've rained that evening, had it not.
My return to Cuzco wasn't to the Santiago Barrio, the place of my departure, four days' back. Instead, given that I had taken a bus, the main terminal de autobuses was where I would hit solid ground again, transformed by not only the trials of trail, people, and climate. But, by the layers of stories and histories that exude from every where: ruins, mountains, trees, Andean mist, and people's mouths.
One lingering story thrust through my awareness as I strolled back in the direction of Zaguan del Cielo, the Cuzqueña Beer Factory, and Andinos Language School.
With this location in mind, a flash of memory flushed back to me.
The night had been a long one. We began the evening at Hotel Libertadores in the heart of Cuzco, where we tasted our first pisco sours. Jesús, myself, and Paul, a new student at Andinos were all present. The Diva announced to the remaining trio of the importance of the occasion, as he thanked us for being there and saluted our individual journeys to Peru and beyond.
The Diva also paid particular respect to the location at which we sat. His words went more or less as follows: "So from just across the way, at the Santo Domingo Churcho, or Cori-cancha, the Temple of the Sun, when the last moments of the last Sapa Inca forever joined our ancestors in the ethers above."
He continued: "This Inca may've been the last, but he'll never be the best. Because that's a prize that this guy already claims. Ok, queen?!"
We roared in laughter. More enthused by the small crowd of spectators increasing in size with each punchline.
The Diva continued: "I might be from Lima, but my roots are deeply Andean. As pure as the gold and silver in the deep veins of the Apus, and as clear as the glacial laguna and streams that nurture our farms and feed our people..."
The growing crowd awed at Jesús's story-turned-speech.
"...on that last day, after everyone knew just what was coming, it only took one hand.
A lone hand was all that was needed to instantly quell the anguish of Andeans. The result was a silence that utterly surprised any onlooker to the scene, from Spaniard, to Inca, to even flocks of birds on hand.
The royal words came sharply into the space created, for it was a call that would impact the minds and hearts of the day, and continue resonance from this valley through centuries.
""Ccollanan Pachacamac ricuy auccacunac yawarniy hichascancuta". ("Pacha Kamaq, sé testigo de cómo mis enemigos derraman mi sangre." "Pacha Kamaq, witness how my enemies shed my blood.")
An explosion erupted. One like no other.
Guards reluctantly stepped forward, worrying of ensuing chaos, as high officials instantly cued for proceedings to commence.
As Spanish hands fastened simultaneously around royal calves and head, even the ethereal ancients of the past couldn't quiet the cacophony of cries sounding from the base of the Temple of the Sun. The pain reverberated through the hordes of Incan bodies present, through the city they so loved, exiting the Valley of Cuzco, and shooting out beyond the glacial Apus.
Watching a leader leave is hard enough. Nothing compares, though, to having the human embodiment of the sun, the Son of the Sun, wane forever in one, long series of severances.
Dying on the day, in late September of 1572, wasn't only the proud, courageous leader of an empire in long-past demise. Ceasing to be in a set of moments, was a sacred symbol to a society. A reference point from which thousands of women and men, children and ancients, drew an identity and communion, and through which centuries of counsel, balance, and hope were offered.
Tupac Amaru, from his elevated perspective above the forever grounds of Cori'cancha, could observe from a whole new space. He could also finally make out the dream words that his father uttered all of those days before in the plaza of Vilcabamba. The message was as clear as he'd ever want it: "You'll always be King, Tupac. Always."
When the Diva, the teacher, the principal finished his speech, everyone present clapped in unison. The crowd, which now included hotel guests, attendants, bartenders, wait staff, in addition to the original trio of friends, were obviously and thoroughly moved by the Jesús's testimony of the final moments of Inca Tupac Amaru and the Incan Empire.
My return to the meeting point of New and Old Town at Calle Recoleta was exactly what I needed. The journey to the jungle and back yielded infinitely more than I had anticipated. My friend in Lima was right: The trails and tales held within Vilcabamba were enthralling, for I'd never imagined their variety and intensity even after attending Chuck's lectures or reading John Hemming's book. With lessons of history, coupled with hypnotic visions and sounds of the Andean past, I'd forever be changed by the riches of insight from the last four days.
Based on the meeting of so many characters along the road during this year's journey and others, I gained insight into the importance of human connection. And, in particular, to listening, even when it appears that the source, or the messenger, isn't worth your attention or time.
Case in point #1: Jesús. As seen above and perhaps in a few other places and times, he proved to be perfectly knowledgeable about a good portion of the Incas' history. He also showed through his love and gift for the theatrics and performances, that the learning and performing of history can be fun, entertaining, and plainly fascination. Perhaps his awareness of history, and Andean history, in particular, isn't at the level of say Chuck or Jose. But, the ultimate recitation given in the Hotel Libertadores was plenty proof to conjure respect in me. And, quite clearly, in others as well.
Case in point #2: Rafael (AKA, "the Duke"). Despite the overflowing and pomp appearances, cocksureness, and all the rest, this guy knew his stuff. Be it history, archaeology, music, architecture, etc. His warning was also accurate, spot-on. At the point at which I thought I had exorcised his words of caution, is when I needed the guidance most. Had I not dismissed this man for his crazed ways and actually grasped what good he did provide, I could've prevented a harsh, near fatal, situation from ever occurring.
Not only did I learn that it was important to listen to strange sources, but that people you meet along the trail can often be some of the most welcoming humans you'll ever run into. I thought back to Vista Alegre and the time we spent with Juanlu. He invited us into his home, allowed us to use his house and its amenities through the evening and night, asking nothing of us, other than waking at an early hour. There was Elvis in Graceland (Vista Alegre) who was equally hospitable, giving us an invite for breakfast and sharing conversation as the darkness passed to light. Then, even despite the drunken antics, there was Juan in Espiritu Pampa (Vilcabamba), who eventually came around, in a similar vein to the fat truck owner leading from Changuiri to Quillabamba. The point was clear: the goodness of people is always on display. And, even as I continue to travel, I'm never surprised by the high level of character of the majority of people I meet.
Of course, the detailed professional and passionate insights coloring and texturing my experience couldn't have been better laid out by anybody else. I'm indebted to the time I spent with Jose Bolaños in Lima and Prof. Charles F. Walker at UC Davis. Their abundance of knowledge has provided me with a wealth of stories and visions, and I thank them both for their time and inspiration. That's not to mention the written words of John Hemming, through whom, in addition to Jose and Chuck, I had a chance to live the adventure before the adventure even occurred.
On this journey, I must say that I also gained practical knowledge along the way. First off, I learned that one must choose a well-trained and experienced trail guide. Although Eddy did very well, he wasn't experienced. Therefore, water-scares and money-shortages took place, which is something that could have been avoided with a seasoned guide (though I take my part of the responsibility for this as well). Also, the organization of the tour would have been much clearer and easily understood with an experienced guide.
Another lesson learned was simply the importance of being in a good mood. When one is in a positive mood, generally speaking, it seems next to impossible to experience hardship, or to experience it in quite the same way. Cases in point of the influence of my negative mood: being denied water by the old woman in Concevideyoc and not having the presence of mind to look for other alternatives; running into the drunk men in Espiritu Pampa and putting up with their antics; having my iPod stolen or intentionally misplaced; trading harsh words with the drunk owner of the truck; running into the hugely intimidating drug dealer guy in the plaza of Quillabamba. These were all results of being locked into a bad mood. And, funny as it is to say, now, many years removed, I'm truly lucky to be able to document this.
For Inca Tupac Amaru & Co., however, their stories and destinies either died with them, or were censored, erased, or tamed for many years. They and their descendants and ascendants were relegated to the realm of the "conquered" in reality and in the annals of Spanish-dictated history. Through the 20th and 21th centuries, especially, these stories of the past have awoken from their forced slumber, their worlds reignited, offering colors, textures, and feelings and information that have always anticipated a complete returning to. Using tales, stories, relics and ruins as gateways, we can continue to pass through material solidity and into the fluid realm of history, a place where abundant visions, sounds, and lessons abound.
Oh, if José could see me now...
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