Tracking the Ancients
I had dreamt feverishly the previous night. The scenes included precarious jungle domains, surveilling deadly predators, and lung-stifling humidity. All daunting possibilities, potentially awaiting us on our four-day horizon.
Relics of my dream returned, surely the influence of Jose:
Loud clanging of armor to armor, stood out from the rest. Or was it armor to sword?
Three Toledo steel-clad men ran hastily around rocks, through lush foliage, winding their way on a trail of muddy earth. In a large opening of cloud forest, the three men abruptly stopped.
From there, fog serenely floated through the forest of infinite trees, as the fierce chase took a brief pause. Though noticeably winded, the soldiers still searched from standing, frantically alert to the limitless obscurities and dangers of the exotic jungle thicket.
Speaking intelligibly in old Spanish, one said to the other two: "Mirad! Sería mejor si separamos (Look! It'd be better if we split up). Ellos no van a poder durar mucho tiempo más (They won't be able to last much longer)."
They efficiently split into three parts, a surefire way of finding their highly-sought prey, as the union of men recommenced their raging search.
The raucous awoke even the deepest of sleepers in one Tupac Amaru. He, for the first time in weeks, had dreamt to a sweat. He needed air, as he gasped for any that he could find in the immediate Vilcabamba jungle. As big decisions loomed large for the Sapa Inca, only concern marked his late-night stirrings. Could this close encounter with the Iberians be a sign of things to come for the Loyalists?
As I wiped the cold sweat from my brow, I was grateful that the dangers of my lucid Lima dream hadn't followed me into the physical. I did, however, still observe haunting thoughts pass gloomily through my head, like sticky shadows stuck to my mental aura. For some reason, I, too, felt concern for what I had just seen. Perhaps the vision, like it may have been for the Sapa Inca, was a sign of things to come along our journey to the ancient citadel.
Regardless, I had to get going. So, I desperately needed to pivot from downward to upward.
Hence, breathing and stretching, first. Preparation, next. Then, it'd be time to create the day, minus the dread.
During an absurdly early soup-session inside the restaurant portion of Uncle Juan's store, I observed the arrival of various locals. All were busy chatting, while some purchased products at what appeared to be the hippest shop in Huancacalle.
One customer in the store stood out. He was a mountain guide about to embark on the long southeasterly trail to Machu Picchu, in the direction opposite ours.
"A dónde vas, tú? (Where are you going?)" He asked. "A Vilcabamba (To Vilcabamba)" I answered.
"Bien. Bueno, lo vas a disfrutar. Es un lugar hermoso. (Good. Well, you're going to enjoy it. It's a beautiful place.)" He affirmed. I nodded with equal hopes.
Miky, or Miguel Angel Choque Delgado, was from Cuzco and was working for the Cuzco Regional Government in documenting the varying distances, elevations, and other characteristics of the ancient trails of the region.
As we talked, I could sense a solidness to his character. His presence was that of a real, self-assured mountain guide. He traveled independently, equipped with only a map and a limited-supplied backpack.
Albeit in a modern-day way, the thought that flooded my mind was Chaski, those timelessly-rooted Andean messengers who collectively crisscrossed and connected tambos (storage houses) to transport royal missives. And though I didn't bring this thought to Miky's attention, I'm sure in one way or another the comparison would've been an appreciated equivalence.
There was, however, something else that needed to be brought up. Having wanted to ask him earlier and throughout, I finally joked, "te llamas Miky, así como Mick Jaggar? (you call yourself Miky, like Mick Jaggar?)"
Miky smiled. He then, shockingly, went on to lift his jacket up, revealing a Rolling Stones' tongue t-shirt underneath. "Cómo lo sabías, amigo?! (How did you know, friend?!) Es mi grupo favorito, bro!" (It's my favorite band, bro!)"
My new friend and I shared a hearted laugh, as we went on to discuss the Stones, in depth. The English rockers were also my favorite band, given that I'd listened to them since birth. This coincidental common-ground opened up an instant connection between Miky and me. Needless to say, our first meeting got off to a very enjoyable start. Perhaps it was an omen of more good times to come.
I would later spend quite a bit of time with Miky, both on and off of the Incan roads. But, for the time being, we exchanged email addresses and phone numbers, as I assured him of my assured return to the Cuzco area the following year.
Journey to the Northwest: Vitcos to Vilcabamba
As I reveled in the last sights of Huancacalle, the witnessing of the legendary Vitcos and its hilltop ruins of Rosaspata, and shrine of wonder that is Yurac Rumi, Eddy and I were finally off. Nostalgia flushed through me as I internally promised to one day return to this beautiful, fascinating, jewel of a niche, forever propped high in this nether Andean canyon.
The focus was now on the prospects of the Vilcabamba jungle. Thus, we hailed a cab to first take us to the top of a mountain (10,300 ft.), on the high perimeter above the Huancacalle/Vitcos basin. Once there, we excitedly unloaded our gear.
The chase scene from my dream suddenly reappeared in my awareness. Why were those Spanish soldiers running through the jungles? Why at such a breakneck pace? As the clattering of steel-on-steel resonated strongly in my inner ear, I wondered, and where did Tupac Amaru fit in to the scenario? I tried to reconnect these visions with a José-tale I had heard in Lima, but in the rush of the moment I was having trouble doing so.
Eddy and I turned around in unison, immediately awed by the multilayered landscape unfolding in the northwesterly distance.
The view was spectacular: long, lush mountain valleys, variably descending to distant, deep, invisible river canyons. The Pampaconas, the Concevideyoc, the San Miguel, and the Urubamba rivers all in obscure, winding motion within my immediate 180-degree morning vista. A vista decorated with hues running the spectrum: from dark brown to its lighter shades; from sun-orange, reaching all the way out to other, more brilliant ones. And, of course, that same soft, heavenly Andean mist from the previous afternoon still blessed everything and everyone present to and enveloped by it.
From the start, beyond the dead end of road, there was hardly a discernible trail marking the way. In intuitive response, Eddy affirmed, "tendremos que armar nuestro propio (we'll have to blaze our own)," while staying loyal to the contours of the mountain.
I thought back to what the endless processions of Incas must've seen before them and imagined in their minds during their time in this region from approximately the 1450s onward. And, especially upon knowing that the Spanish, circa 1572, were in unrelenting, hot pursuit.
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| Markings: Cuzco, 1 / Machu Picchu, 2 / Vitcos/Huancacalle, 3 / Vilcabamba/Espíritu Pampa, 4 |
As this larger history came to mind, with Chuck's voice clearly leading the narration, I knew that the loyalist Incas, by 1572, were more than a year into the leadership of Inca Tupac Amaru (seen below).
They had retreated fully to Vilcabamba, which became their certifiable home from approximately 1571 to 1572. Vitcos, the center of the Neo-Incan State from 1536-1571, was, from 1570/1571 onward, too risky of a place to dwell, given its history of Spanish incursion and closer and more accessible location to Spanish-held Cuzco and the Sacred Valley.
Vitcos was also a precarious setting, as Jose informed me, particularly considering the region's charged climate following the unexpected death of Inca Titu Cusi (seen below). From his crowning in 1563 until his death, the late Inca had had mostly good relations with the Spanish. Per the Acobamba Treaty of 1566, he had been baptized along with his principal wife. He had also allowed Friar Garcia, one of the priests from the baptism to stay on in Puquiura. Friar Ortiz later followed, erecting his own church below Vitcos, at Huancacalle.
However, during a customary visit to Vitcos in 1571, Titu Cusi shockingly died, causing panicking Inca loyalists to scramble in their pointing of fingers at suspected culprits. After this point, the Neo-Incan State was thrown into chaos, opting for a much more defensive and confrontational stance toward the Spaniards.
Martin Pando and Fray Ortiz were the two closest Iberians to the scene. They had spent time with Titu Cusi during the evening prior to the Inca's death. In hasty order, the pair of Spaniards were accused of having poisoned the late Inca. Martin Pando, a confidante of the Sapa Inca and 15-year veteran in the region, was killed on the spot. Friar Ortiz, on the other hand, was spared, though he was forced into performing a next-to impossible ultimatum.
But before that, there was another event which added to Spanish-Incan tensions in the region. This was, intriguingly, content of an odd dream I hadn't fully paid attention to from before. It was that one with Rafael making so much noise and fuss. That same one with Jesús dressed in colorful traditional Andean clothes, speaking professionally, and dancing flamboyantly, as only he can.
Regardless of theatrics, I was able to recall the prelude and main story clearly from yet another UC Davis lecture. I, at once, thought back to the fate of Atilano de Anaya (not pictured).
Shortly after Francisco de Toledo (seen below, right) assumed his new role as Viceroy of Peru (late 1569), the dominating, ambitious Toledo needed clarity and a reupped communication line with Vitcos. The viceroy opted for Atilano de Anaya, the right choice given his role as caretaker of the Yucay estate and holdings of Beatriz Clara Coya (seen below, left), the daughter of late Inca Sayri Tupac.
Unaware of the new Inca in town, and much less of the death of Titu Cusi, Anaya, a man on mostly good terms with the latter, made his way from Yucay, in what today is the Sacred Valley. His assignment was to go to the Vilcabamba Region and reinvigorate a contact line with the loyalist Incas for the eager Viceroy Toledo.
Anaya arrived at the Urubamba River crossing, like he had numerous times in the past. Leading up to his arrival, Anaya was cognizant of an existing tension. Weeks' before, other officials had been denied access into the Vilcabamba Region at the Apurimac River crossing, causing no small alarm to the Spaniards.
Per usual, Anaya & Co. crossed the Urubamba, anticipating the westerly jaunt in the direction toward Vitcos.
While walking for some time along the muddy trail, Anaya and his small entourage were witness to the rich verdant scenery and calm ambiance, so familiar to them from their visits in the past.
The successful crossing of the Chiquichaca Bridge offered the small group some form of relief. They figured other parties hadn't been so fortunate as to pass. The walk from here, they figured, would be long, maybe eight hours. But at least they wouldn't have to cross any more major rivers en route to Vitcos.
The late afternoon skies were as blue as can be, yielding a vibrant tint to the trail's abundant foliage. The small group walked along in silence, consumed by their natural surroundings and anticipating their eventual arrival to the capital.
Just then, out of nowhere, ten Incan soldiers appeared on the side of the trail. Anaya instantly grew tense given the loyalists' out-of-the-ordinary method of arrival. The others, similarly shocked, subsequently took on a defensive posturing to the new presence on the road. Wasting no time, the Incan soldiers aggressively charged at the static and stunned Iberian contingent.
The Spanish attempts at resistance were frail, posing no match for their purely unrelenting native foes. The Incans went straight for their paramount target, brutally striking the prominent Cuzqueño official to the ground. A few strikes later, in what was clearly the carrying out of a premeditated and directed plan, Atilano de Anaya was killed. The others in the contingent, in due time, were dealt with in kind.
If one listened closely enough, sounds of armor to armor, and armor to sword, could already be heard. This ominous and certain signal was proof enough for oncoming battle.
In only a few strikes, the scene was at once set for imminent conflict, circa 1572, more than it ever had before. The fierce Spanish barrage on Vitcos and Vilcabamba wouldn't be long.
Thankfully, circa the 21st century, Eddy and I were not partaking in an incursion nor retreat in any form. Our proposal was only of a recreational nature, an excursion into these hallowed and formerly unpassable lands.
This exact place, five-and-a-half centuries past, was a veritable threshold through which few outsiders passed or even dared attempt it. At the start of the modern age, among these contingents were from the likes of Hernando Pizarro and Gonzalo Pizarro and their numerous Spanish and native soldiers. On this morning, my new friend and guide would look to try our luck in this postmodern age.
Regardless of aim or historical difficulties, our first detour would come early on. Within minutes, we were presented with a hefty challenge: to bypass a huge mudslide area blocking all possibility of forward movement. The space effected spanned from 200 feet above our path, then, fell precipitously, to an unseen place hundreds of feet down the mountain-shed to the abysmal river below. The only method of potentially safe clearance, from what we could tell, would be to climb up the inclinous dry land to an area far above the collapse and attempt to cross there.
Regardless of aim or historical difficulties, our first detour would come early on. Within minutes, we were presented with a hefty challenge: to bypass a huge mudslide area blocking all possibility of forward movement. The space effected spanned from 200 feet above our path, then, fell precipitously, to an unseen place hundreds of feet down the mountain-shed to the abysmal river below. The only method of potentially safe clearance, from what we could tell, would be to climb up the inclinous dry land to an area far above the collapse and attempt to cross there.
As we scaled the steeps, we were trotting on loose and precarious earth. Even though we were able to mostly avoid the dangerous wet dirt and mud, the prospects of another landslide were uneasingly still quite possible, with the potential to even take Eddy and me with it.
"Cuidado, amigo," Eddy cautioned. "Todavía tenemos un largo camino por recorrer... (Careful, friend...We still have a long way to go...)." I could only respond, "Sí, no? (Right?), as trepidation stung my nerves.
While our foot-placement was uncertain and nervous, our execution, in the end, was flawless. Upon clearance, we exhaled in much-deserved relief, as Eddy and I celebrated our emerging journey's first notable challenge.
We pushed forth, down the now faint trail beneath our feet, meandering our line through the mix of stones, loose dirt and mud, and short grass that defined this descending mountain chute.
Along our briskly-paced coast downhill, at this still incipient stage of our multiple-day journey to the jungle, the second noteworthy event occurred: I twisted my ankle. Badly. Atrociously. I grunted out in intense pain, necessarily pausing with hands to knees for a moment.
Eddy looked back. First, with a look of concern. Then, with a subtle smirk, intuitively proclaiming: I told you so.
This event was preceded by our pointed discussion as to whether or not my small, narrow-soled "city shoes" (suede Adidas mountain-bike shoes) would be sufficient for our trek. We both agreed that they would not be. However, given the lack of outfitters (due to the lack of tourists), there were no available hiking boots in my size in Huancacalle.
"Como te dije, las botas son lo más importante que puedes tener en este viaje. (Like I told you, boots are the most important thing you can have on this trip)." Eddy reaffirmed, critical of my failure to fully prepare.
To this, I could only shake my head in utter pain and frustration. My immediate fear was not wanting to have this injury revisited on the long, trying trail to come. Unfortunately, as I was to find, without any trusty boots, this instability would lend brutally to numerous ankle-twists and an all-around shaky foot-hold. Oh, how I wished I'd brought my ankle-supported, Hi-Tec boots that I could confidently rely on during any trek, on any terrain.
Even so, Eddy and I moved on from the scene of the injury. And, once having gained a rhythm on the trail via a pain-induced trance, the alarm with which Tupac Amaru had woken up from his dream in my dream sent alarm through me. I eventually allowed this vision to settle, as my attention trailed off further, back to Chuck's continued lecture about the formerly imminent, now real Spanish push toward Vilcabamba.
A raucous of footsteps sounded off, even on the wet trail. Horseshoes clanked and soldier boots stomped wildly onto the earth from decibels loud to soft, as the large Spanish contingent came to a massive, collective halt.
The winded horses sneered annoyedly, having just made it through a particularly heavy stretch from hardpacked to, now, mostly muddy trail. Myriad soldiers, their superiors, as well as horses, pigs, and chickens stood while resting on the descending, nondescript path, waiting out their next move.
Hurtado de Arbieto and his company were wholly fatigued upon reaching the point at Pampaconas. After all, they had just come off of a fierce yet decisive victory at Vitcos: a first step in penetrating the largely unknowns of the Vilcabamba Region.
Some soldiers were left at the high-altitude town so as to be certain of its control. The rest of the soldiers now descended the road to the jungle, ready to finish the job at the capital citadel.
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| Markings: Vitcos/Huancacalle, 1 / Pampaconas, 2 / Vista Alegre, 3 / Concevideyoc, 4 / Vilcabamba/Espíritu Pampa, 5 |
There, on the slanted-hilled trail, the mixed contingent, comprised of Spanish, mestizos (mixed Spanish and native) and natives (especially, Cañaris and Chachapoyas), began their hours of respite.
Shortly thereafter, Arbieto (below, left) and his men were joined by Arias de Sotelo (below, right) and his contingent. Having taken an entirely different route to the meeting point at Pampaconas, Sotelo and his soldiers certainly upped the charge of Arbieto's already invigorated and ferocious force.
Word was out regarding some enemy activity up on a mountaintop at Huayna Pucará (modern day Tambo), just miles beyond their location of respite. Many years back, hundreds of Incan soldiers had made a surprise assault on the, at that time, unsuspecting Spanish from this same spot, shocking the likes of Gonzalo Pizarro and the hundreds of Iberian and native-allied foot and horse soldiers with him. The result, then, in 1538, was a Spanish loss and eventual retreat back to Cuzco.
However, that time, in spite of the Spanish defeat, Gonzalo Pizarro and Co. hung around the Vitcos area, where they were successful in kidnapping Manco Inca's principal wife, Cura Occllo (below, left), his son, Titu Cusi Yupanqui (below, right), and others. Cura Occllo, upon arriving to Ollantaytambo with her capturers, was tied to a stake and, in stride with Francisco Pizarro and Co.'s frustration in the futile fight in the Vilcabamba Region, was subsequently killed.
Titu Cusi, by contrast, was taken back to Cuzco, baptized, educated, and taken care of. In spite of this good treatment, the future Sapa Inca surely understood, after witnessing Cura Occllo's death, what exactly bad behavior brought. Over time, as well, Titu Cusi would witness several other Iberian-created actions that stood as red-flags - or warnings - for the eventual leader of the Neo-Incan State. However, none of that mattered now that the Sapa Inca was dead.
This time, in 1572, the result would be different. The orders from the singular-focused and vehement Viceroy Toledo were clear: eliminate and win. Actually, the royal official who had set out from Spain in late 1569 to shore up the wobbly colonial experiment that was the Viceroyalty of Peru, wouldn't have it any other way.
This time, 34 years' on, the Incas would have no such luck as they did in 1538. At this point, the Spaniards were onto what was in store. Not only were they cognizant of the confusing topography beyond Vitcos, but they understood Incan war strategy, having engaged in several battles and skirmishes over the past three decades. Thusly, the Iberian-native contingent, now numbering in the many hundreds, tactfully anticipated the attack from far above by hundreds of Incan soldiers.
Notwithstanding the old-worlders' familiarity and keen awareness, the resulting chaos of fighting at Huayna Pucará still took on the brutal yet predictable sounds of the time and place. Metal. Mud. Struggle. Resulting in blood. Desperation. And, for many, death.
Myriad scuffles erupted as Spanish swords swung from both perched and grounded angles, from both horsemen and foot soldiers, alike. Halberds and spears were also employed by non-sword handling soldiers, with the aim of disappearing the Neo-Incan State. The loyalist Incan warriors, armed with halberds, spears, hondas, and the firmest of clubs, swung and stabbed, intent on defending their Inca Tupac Amaru and what remained of their teetering society.
Hours of fighting on the slanted slope at Huayna Pucará yielded a result that would impact the fate of two empires. As the action played out along the Royal Road, all of the ancients were left wondering from the comforts of the heavens: which way would the pendulum ultimately sway?
There would be no going back, circa 1572. The battle for Vilcabamba was imminent. And with that, I could hear Chuck dismissing us students from our Latin American history class, circa 2004.
Of Modern Day Mission(aries)
The initial whisper was desperate. So much so, that down the hill from Huancacalle, the sole voice could be heard reverberating the length of the Pampaconas River Basin, arriving in tact at the gates of Vilcabamba proper.
To all who listened, the message was distinct:
Señor mío, dame una señal, cualquier señal de que estás ahí fuera. Que estás aquí para mí, para protegerme y guiarme. (My Lord, give me a sign, any sign that you're out there. That you're here for me, to protect me, and to guide me.)
The Augustinian's pleading continued, as he next relied on a more generalized, automated mantra to do the work.
Demasiado tarde te he amado, oh Belleza tan antigua, oh Belleza tan nueva. Demasiado tarde te he amado. Estabas dentro de mí pero yo estaba fuera de mí, ¡y allí te busqué! En mi debilidad corrí tras la belleza de las cosas que has hecho. Tú estabas conmigo y yo no estaba contigo. Las cosas que has hecho me alejaban de ti, las cosas que no tendrían existencia si no existieran en ti. Has llamado, has gritado, y has traspasado mi sordera. Has irradiado, has brillado con fuerza, y has disipado mi ceguera. Has enviado tu fragancia, y yo la he respirado, y te anhelo. Te he probado, y tengo hambre y sed de ti. Me has tocado, y deseo ardientemente tu paz. (Oración para encontrar a Dios después de una larga búsqueda)
Too late have I loved you, O Beauty so ancient, O Beauty so new. Too late have I loved you! You were within me but I was outside myself, and there I sought you! In my weakness I ran after the beauty of the things you have made. You were with me, and I was not with you. The things you have made kept me from you - the things which would have no being unless they existed in you! You have called, you have cried, and you have pierced my deafness. You have radiated forth, you have shined out brightly, and you have dispelled my blindness. You have sent forth your fragrance, and I have breathed it in, and I long for you. I have tasted you, and I hunger and thirst for you. You have touched me, and I ardently desire your peace. (Prayer on Finding God after a Long Search)
These searching words interweaved with the sounds of cork to trail, as the young friar strode along the seemingly infinite descent into the Vilcabamba jungle.
Two hours of a smoothed pace and firm foothold led us to our arrival at the first pit-stop of the day: an impressive cluster of circular complexes made of bamboo and wood. The large cross outside of the structures signified its Catholic-mission identity, with the design obviously chosen to match the high-jungle climes in terms of materials and style.
Just upon our entry, the rain started to come down vigorously. We then-and-there gratefully accepted this timely, divine offering.
Inside of the quiet room, Eddy and I humbly sat at one of the many vacant tables of the expansive, rounded structure. This building was the first of five of a similar shape, each connected via raised causeways. Given the close encounters on either side with mountain-offering watershed wedged with potentially high-flowing riverbeds, the "raised" feature came in effective.While waiting for the operators of the establishment to arrive, we sat, listening to the vibrant sounds of raindrops fall firmly upon the hard, conical plastic rooftops above. Oddly, in such a moment of calm, the Diva Jesus loudly and idiotically returned to mind, as I internally questioned, first: Why? And, next, as I allowed the chaotic thought to simply be, I wondered, what kind of antics would Jesus be up to if he were here, now?
To quell the noise, I knowingly responded as only I knew best: to compose myself by refocusing on my breath. Jesus, I declared, would have no role to play in such a far-away place. Of this, I was adamant. And with enough time spent with my breath-in-focus, I, luckily, was soothed by an immensely calming sensation.
I was also rewarded with a delicious moment of stillness, through which I tailed off into yet another one of those vivid tales from Lima. My attention immediately pivoted back in time, to 1571, before the following-year battle for the soul of Vitcos and Vilcabamba.
Friar Diego Ortiz, who'd been in Huancacalle since 1569, was lucky to still be in the area, and, let alone, alive, following his participation in the burning of the Yurac Rumi shrine in Vitcos, along with Friar Garcia and others.
I wondered how Friar Ortiz must've been feeling as he descended this same path 438 years' prior. Surely, given the onset complications of his sitch, he certainly wasn't experiencing near the level of calm and certainty that he and Garcia had felt during their descent of the Incan Royal Road in February, 1570.
A more recent development had occurred. Ortiz, along with the close confidante of Titu Cusi, Martin Pando (who was immediately killed), was accused of having poisoned and killed Titu Cusi during the Sapa Inca's early-1571 visit to Vitcos. Given the peak level of Incan infuriation, and their knowing that Christianity talked of reanimation, Ortiz's only method of exoneration would come in the form of an ultimatum: raise Titu Cusi from the dead during mass, or else...
Friar Ortiz's attempts to raise Titu Cusi Yupanqui from the dead were ultimately unsuccessful. Actually, the cleric didn't even dare attempt the would-be miraculous act asked of him by Incan loyalists demanding their deceased Sapa Inca back in human form.
As a result, the friar was shunned from Vitcos, ordered to descend afoot from the location of his last mass at Huancacalle in the direction of the low-lying jungles of Vilcabamba. Interestingly, his paseo was on the same route on which we now strode. Hence my concern, all these years later, for Ortiz, whose road would shape up to be a complicated, arduous journey. While ours, contrastingly, was so far shaping up to be quite the opposite.
Just then, a twenty-something local woman approached our table. My immediate observance was of this woman's incredible air of calm. We exchanged salutations, and she promptly offered us chicken soup and water. An offer to which Eddy and I graciously accepted.
Once having returned, the woman sat down with both of us. As we ate, the Peruvian woman shared her version of the history of the high-jungle establishment.
According to Maria, this well-devised and -constructed network of circular structures was built by a team of Catholic missionaries from Italy and Peru. In addition to its missionary function, it coupled also as a school for the poorest-of-poor children in the area. Another form of service (and income) was its tertiary function as a campamiento for tourists and passersby to the area. Donations were optional, with the proceeds going to support the betterment of the school, the complex, and for other supplies.
According to Maria, this well-devised and -constructed network of circular structures was built by a team of Catholic missionaries from Italy and Peru. In addition to its missionary function, it coupled also as a school for the poorest-of-poor children in the area. Another form of service (and income) was its tertiary function as a campamiento for tourists and passersby to the area. Donations were optional, with the proceeds going to support the betterment of the school, the complex, and for other supplies.
As Maria explained the various facets of the mission/school, I couldn't help but be amazed by the vision and end result. At a certain point, a twenty-something year-old man also joined our table.
Andres was a missionary from Milan, Italy, who had been volunteering his time and energy to the mission for two years. He told us that he loved the work and, even though it was at times challenging, that he planned on staying for many years to come.
Andres was a missionary from Milan, Italy, who had been volunteering his time and energy to the mission for two years. He told us that he loved the work and, even though it was at times challenging, that he planned on staying for many years to come.
We told our new friends of our plans to go to Vilcabamba. When we asked about how many days the venture would take, Maria said to Andres, "unos dos días, máximo, sin mulas, verdad? (about two days, max, without mules, right?)" Andres nodded in agreement that that would be sufficient time for the trek.
Eddy and I looked at each other, surprised as to this low time-load estimation. Each of us gave a mirrored smirk of combined confusion yet relief. Eddy commented, "qué bien... Pensábamos que nos llevaría más tiempo (How great...We thought it would take more time)."
We felt relief in the obvious sense of having to expend less energy. And, too, in that our estimated DOA (Date-of-Arrival) continued to shed with each successive inquiry.
Relaxing into the tranquility of the room, I couldn't help but reflect on the uncanny coincidence of our present location: a Catholic mission. The story of the fervent actions of Friar Ortiz and his ally Friar Garcia (& Co.) launched back into my mind.
In particular, I thought of their attempts to win over the locals in Huancacalle, where Ortiz was based, and Puquiura (or Pucyara), where Garcia was based. The latter was allowed by the Incas to leave back to Cuzco after the shrine burning at Yurac Rumi. Ortiz, on the other hand, being the more palatable of the pair, stayed on.
I wondered, in light of the two amiable religious folk before us: had Garcia and Ortiz, originally, been as peaceful and hopeful of doing good and being of service, at least at the early stages in the area, as our modern-day examples were? Keeping in mind the religious fervor of the 15th into the 16th centuries (and beyond), and the close connection of conversion with conquest, I reached a quick, conclusive answer: quite simply, probably not.
Regardless of past clerical intent, with its strong rootedness in the religiosity of the day, how reflective and telling of Spanish dominance and continuity in the country and region that a newer Catholic mission was established here. Had this mission, I wondered, been originally established through the work of Garcia and Ortiz? I know that the pair did start to make headway along the road to Vilcabamba. So, perhaps, the chances were good that this site's foundations, literal, or figurative, at the very least, could've been put in place by the Iberians.
Back to the intent of God's servants. By our humble account, for sake of benefit over doubt, the nature and tone of these modern-day clergy was deeply founded in service and love, rather than, as in the case of their predecessors, in conversion and contempt. In that vein, Eddy and I thanked our friends for their humble hospitality.
To which Andres affirmed, "Ha sido un placer para nosotros hablar con Uds. Le deseamos lo mejor en su viaje. (It's been a pleasure for us to speak with you. We wish you well on your journey)." Shaking hands, we, needless of words, wished them equally well along theirs.
In my continuing growth of optimism, given our reduced DOA and overall high morale (perhaps, overconfidence), I opted to leave a two-gallon jug of water at the school. I felt that we would have plenty of water for the rest of the now shortened trek, and that, for sake of comfort via a lightened-load, the road ahead would be much more manageable. Eddy agreed, and our new friends were grateful for our parting gift.
We left the mission with clear minds, for adventure was on the noon-time horizon. However, our double-dose of positivity was abruptly squelched, when, not more than a few steps off the long exit ramp of the mission structure, I twisted my ankle. Again. This time, owing more to the lack of tread on my shoes than to the lack of sole/surface-space as in the first episode.
Realizing what I had done, I laughed, sarcastically. Seems like Friar Ortiz and I now have something more in common, I declared, all too aware of my current feeling of imbalance on the precarious path.
"¡Dios! Ayúdame a sobrevivir a esta lucha. Ayúdame a superar este tiempo de prueba. Confío en ti. Siempre lo he hecho. (God! Help me survive this struggle. Help me through this trying time. I trust in you. I always have.")
The path wasn't as slick and sloppy as the rainy-season journey with Friar Garcia back in February, but given the pressing concern rooted in the Iberian's belly, Ortiz, in spit of his prayers, found it tough to find any form of steady, as his feet struggled to stay rooted to the wet path.
Why me? Ortiz lamented. "Why after so many months and so much work? The friar defended himself to himself.
He continuously felt off-balance and clumsy, causing him to further declare: "Ahora es el momento en que te necesito. Nunca sabrás cuánto deseo simplemente habitar en ti." (Now is the time that I need you. You'll never know how much I so desire to simply dwell in you.")
I, nevertheless, kept moving, doing so to prevent my imminent entry into the zone of pain. Eddy matched my ironic laughter, as he watched me move out in front of him. In this rare move, I maintained a fast pace for some time, intent on riding the hitherto wave of enthusiasm which had defined our refreshing, healing time spent at the modern-day mission.
Oh, what life must've been like for Friar Ortiz so many centuries before. Along this very same path, the friar must've been wondering where the Lord was taking him and what He was teaching him. I pondered.
As the modern and ancient worlds uncannily continued to collide, I humbly celebrated, and, oh, if José could see me now... I knew for certain that the Professor would be proud.
Mounting Momentum
It was 1 p.m. And the temperature started to assert and ascend. A sticky, accompanying humidity bombarded us, whilst we waded through a microclimatic shift into ever-jungly landscape. The vibrant bushes and trees now jumped out at us, as high-rising and thickening forest canopies toweringly rose above our heads.The formerly faint sounds of the constant Pampaconas River rapidly rose to uproarious, just as the soil beneath our feet softened notably in texture. From this, Eddy was certain of our approach to Vista Alegre, the proposed riverside campamiento for the night. As we were to find, rather than the usual flat, dry, and open-spaced campsites prevalent at most higher-elevated Inca Road stops, we would be setting up camp on the moist and muddy grounds of a local schoolhouse.
During our entry into Vista Alegre (6617 ft.), I experienced the chilling thought of being attacked by a snake. We were, after all, in veritable jungle. This reasoning rattled my subconscious, coursing through its contents and evoking everything abysmal and instinctual. That same deep-seated fear of the unknown crept back in, as the hauntings from the previous night's dream reappeared.
Tupac's return to sleep opened up his dream-vision anew, only now, much more intensely than before:
The tormenting, perceived thoughts were probably the worst of it. In this unfamiliar area of the jungle, every subtle physical movement was accompanied by an anticipation of being struck with an arrow anywhere from the chest up. Or, just as fatal, being expectantly clocked by a club from a place unseen, and a man untrusted. That's not to mention the chance of death by predatorial attack; be it by puma mauling or by snake venom. Both were methods of fatality equally unwanted in this mysterious, precarious place.
Nonetheless, when it mattered most, Uncle Huallpa was always there for the great Andean king. And, especially during hard times, when his royal nephew needed him most.
After all, Neo-Incan society was, by all accounts, waning in light and life. Much of the present reality, as the royals understood well, was due to events that happened well before the arrival of the Spaniards. This played out, circa the 1520s and early-1530s, between the rivalrous sons of Inca Huayna Capac and could be referred to as the Huascar-Atahualpa Schism. This included internal disagreements and divisions that offered a fissure for the Iberians to exploit when they did arrive in 1531.
Over the past couple of years, circa 1569-1572, however, a number of events between the Iberians and loyalist Incas had contributed to the chaos of the current situation. For one, there was the Augustinian push to be no less than omnipresent in the region, which, unceremoniously led to the burning of Yurac Rumi and its temple. Then, there was the death of Tupac's brother, Titu Cusi, which rehashed memories of Manco Inca's assassination in 1544. Finishing the turning-point events off were the bold turning away of Spaniards by loyalist Incas at the Apurimac crossing and the blunt murder of Atilano de Anaya at the hands of Tupac Amaru & Co. From these episodes, and others, the standoff between worlds was thus formed and set into motion.
The Loyalists, like the Spaniards, knew that the tensions were as high as they'd been in over two decades. And, certainly, both sides were intimately aware that the past could now never be changed; that from here on out, any form of peace would come only through coercion or conquest.
At the moment, the royal trio was in the area somewhere around Momori (present-day Kiteni), nearing the land of the unpredictable Pilcosuni. Those untrustworthy Pilcosuni, dangerous like most of their jungle neighbors.
An eerie cacophony of bird chirps played from their heightened ensemble in the domed jungle canopy, adding utter atonality to it all. This was an area that felt to the royals like the wildest of places. Unknown. Unstable. Where each step torturously added another layer of terror, both real and anticipated.
"Now it's time for me to join your father, Tupac." Uncle Huallpa uttered. "Titu and your mother, too."
Then the great king's eyes shot open. From his Vilcabamba abode, he searched frantically for culprits to his night-frights. Not able to find anyone else present other than his lovely loyal wife, the Sapa Inca relented, as he returned his weary head to pillow. In an attempt to subtract this uneasy dissonance pulsing inside, the Son of the Sun commenced his breathing anew with aims of quelling his electric nerves.
The obtuse nature of both what he'd earlier and just seen caused alarm in Tupac's heart and mind. He, after all, believed his dreams to have symbolic, telling aspects. Through them, he would gauge his needs and those of his people. At this point, the message was clear, and the following now mandatory: he would need to meet with his trusty generals and officials first thing the next morning.
So as to root myself back into the here-and-now, I altered my fearful string of thoughts to focus on the well-sheltered structures of Vista Alegre. Any topic was better, as long as it was concentrated away from death, especially by way of those forsaken venom-givers.
Out from the nearest shack stepped a young-looking man, probably in his twenties. Juan Luis was the schoolmaster and the only full-time resident on the Vista Alegre school grounds. In seeing our exposure to the newly-falling rain and accompanying need for shelter, Juan Luis invited Eddy and me into his "studio apartment." We humbly accepted.
Inside the home, we observed a typical layout of most jungle shelters and homes: packed-dirt floor, charred cooking-hearth, wood furniture (bed, table, and benches), and mostly-dark interior. Mostly, in this particular case, given that there was a space of three inches surrounding the entire structure.
This observation set off an even more terrifying alarm in me, as I scrambled for any form of rationale: An open-aired space between where the bottom of the wall ends and the dirt floor or ground begins? And surrounding the whole house? I now grew even more tense, since I knew full-well that those feared creatures could easily slither through at any given moment and surprise the unsuspecting.
I needed to change focus. So, I shifted my attention back to the conversation. I thought of asking Juan Luis if he knew anything about Friar Ortiz and his trials along this road. But, our new friend was in the middle of a confession. "Hace mucho tiempo que no veo a ningún extranjero pasar por aquí. Yo, después de todo, estoy aquí casi todo el tiempo. (It's been a long time since I've seen any foreigners come through here. I, after all, am here almost all of the time.)"
There forward, from the confines of his living room, Juanlu went on to tell us that he had been the teacher at the community school for gaining on two years. Originally from Cuzco, a big city, he found the ruralness of this area to be unmanageable, at times, and the loneliness excruciating. With his girlfriend living back in his homecity, he managed to travel back there every other weekend.
Wanting to pivot my attention further away from serpents, I acted interested by asking, "Cuándo fue el último que pasó? (When was the last one to come through?)"
Surely not sensing my inner dilemma, Juan Luis responded. "Tal vez en algún momento del mes pasado. (Maybe sometime last month.) "Pero antes de eso fue probablemente el año anterior. (But before that it was probably the year before.)"
Eddy and I were amazed at the slow-going level of tourism in the area. Notwithstanding, I continued to anxiously peek at the structures' absurdly knickerbockerous walls.
Juan Luis continued. "En realidad, lo del año anterior fue algo increíble. (Actually, what happened last year was an incredible thing.)"
De verdad? Por qué? (Really? How come?)" Eddy inquired. My interest started to grow.
Juan Luis's excitement was clear. "Mi clase estaba en sesión dentro de la escuela, cuando uno de los vecinos gritó desde fuera: "Oigan! ¡Sal a ver quién está aquí!" Normalmente no paro mis clases por nada. Pero la voz y el tono del vecino fueron bruscos. (My class was in session inside of the schoolhouse, when one of the neighbors shouted from outside: "Hey! Come out and see who's here!" I usually don't stop my classes for anything. But the neighbor's voice and tone were abrupt.)"
We were captivated by the teacher's story. Juan Luis adjusted his stance, as he continued. "Cuando mi clase, de unos diez alumnos, y yo salimos del aula, no podíamos creer quién estaba allí delante de nuestros ojos... ¡Era David Beckham! Estaba solo. Bueno, le acompañaba un guía local, pero, por lo demás, vino a Perú solo y estaba recorriendo el mismo camino que Uds. (As my class of about ten and I walked out of the classroom, we couldn't believe who was right there before our eyes... It was David Beckham! He was all alone. Well, he had a local guide with him, but, otherwise, he came to Peru by himself and was going along the same road as you guys are.)"
Amazed, I immediately asked, "Cómo era él? (What was he like?)"
Juan Luis responded, "Era el tipo más simpático. Muy tranquilo, divertido y con los pies en la tierra. (He was the nicest guy. Very mellow, fun, and down-to-earth.) De hecho, trajo algunos balones y camisetas de fútbol para repartirlos entre los niños. (He actually brought some soccer balls and shirts with him to hand out to the kids.)"
Eddy and I were both intrigued by Juanlu's recounting. I felt lucky not only to listen to the teacher's tale, but also to be on the same path as one taken by a modern-day legend of football. Real football, that is.
Then the teacher moved forward to more intimate details. "Pero la parte más interesante fue cuando le preguntamos por qué había venido solo. (But the part that was most interesting was when we asked him why he came all alone.)"
Eddy and I looked to one another and smiled knowingly. We then slowly returned our gaze to Juanlu, who continued, no podíamos creer que nos dijera esto, pero él dijo que había venido hasta Vilcabamba porque necesitaba un tiempo lejos de su mujer! (we couldn't believe he told us this, but he said he came all the way out to Vilcabamba, because he needed some time away from his wife!)"
Eddy and I were awestruck, as the three of us laughed, heartily. Being human and male, we each surely ventured into our own visuals in that moment. For one, my imagination involuntarily burst open as I had a wonderful vision of Posh Spice, David's wife, in all of her beauty, elegance, and divinity. A montage of enticing images of her time with the Spice Girls graced my perception via memory directly from the late-1990s.
As I peered over to Eddy, he, too, must've been having a similar teenager vision as me. After all, at 19, he was still a teenager. While I was...well, I was...absolutely not one!
Juan Luis then turned squarely to us both, proclaiming, "pensamos que éste era probablemente el lugar perfecto para encontrar esa paz. (we figured this was probably the perfect place to find that peace.)"
We continued to laugh, as our imaginations still held and dictated our perception. This truly was a light-hearted and ideal way to celebrate our arrival to the riverside community of Vista Alegre.
When I asked him if his girlfriend ever visited. He, unfortunately for him, confessed, "ella nunca se atrevería a aventurarse en los confines de Vista Alegre para hacer una visita (she would never venture out to the confines of Vista Alegre to pay me a visit)."
I empathized with her choice. Then I considered: Maybe Juanlu's girlfriend wasn't so dissimilar from Victoria Beckham, AKA: Posh Spice? I could only imagine that the latter would've had a hell of a time hiking the toilsome road to Vilcabamba.
Irrespective of girlfriends and wives, the next day, Juanlu would commence his long trip to Cuzco at the early hour of 3 a.m. As a kind gesture, the Cuzqueño offered us his home to cook dinner, eat, and sleep. We were grateful for and accepted his proposition.
He did, however, have one addendum: "Lo único es que debo cerrar mi casa a las tres de la mañana (The only thing is that I must lock up my home at 3 a.m.)." This meant that post-3 a.m., in the dark of the madrugada, we would be forced out to the trail.
That night, after Juan Luis had left to sleep at a friend's home, Eddy and I cooked dinner. It consisted of three Peruvian staples: yucca, rice, and tuna. As I was to find, this combination of starches, by way of yucca and rice, and salt, by way of tuna, would be almost impossible to swallow. As we suffered through this arduous task, we couldn't help but laugh, as Eddy fittingly joked, "un poco seco, no? (a little bit dry, huh?)" In and amongst the chewing and laughter, copious amounts of water was needed to wash down the dryness.
I thought to myself: In spite of this bland meal, I was so much luckier than Ortiz, four-and-a-half centuries on. We had housing, food, and, more than anything, stability. What did the young friar have?
Despite the textural toil, our dinner proved tasty, providing us the necessary sustenance after a long day's journey and in anticipation of the equally long venture the following day.
As for sleep, Eddy took the bed, and I took the floor. It wasn't until a few moments on, after having tucked myself in to my sleeping bag and extinguished the candle light that, once again, the open-aired three inches at the bottom of the shack came into fixed and fervid focus. My heart raced emphatically, as various images ricocheted through my mind: piles of large snakes slithering their way to my whereabouts was most evident; gnarly bugs and spiders slowly marching for refuge in the comforts of my warm sleeping bag; and who knows what other odd-shaped and bizarre rodent or insect doing their deed, all the while, unbeknownst to me.
Matching the relics of last-night's dream and the José-inspired haunting from minutes back, I once again felt an abysmal fear of something unknown, perhaps a creature lurking, obscured in the shadows of the wild jungle night. A curious fusion of fright and imagination resuscitated the following Lima tale.
The alarm caused the Sapa Inca was through a different kind of dream. It was a spy-like vision, as Tupac was but a fly on the wall. This time, stationed across enemy lines:
The Iberian soldiers huddled closely as the dark of the night slowly graduated to jet black. They, too, were in unknown territories, away from the security of power-in-numbers and the other comforts of large contingents, as was the case for the many weeks leading up to only a couple days' back. Their pursuit was similar to that of their adversaries: each step through the jungle was dangerous, for anyone or anything could attack and kill at anytime.
However, they believed themselves to be the chosen ones, elected by Arbieto and Sotelo, and, perhaps, even by the Almighty, to track down the most desired of notable nobles.
The soldiers knew, like the Loyalists, that it would be a pursuit of attrition from here on out. A wild game of chase with the singular aim being to extinguish the last flame, the Son of the Sun, that remaining figure of what was, for a time, during the halcyon days of Inca Huayna Capac, the largest constructed empire in the Americas.
Interestingly, that same cacophony from before continued to atonally sound throughout the grand canopy of jungle. As the imminent showdown awaited, one could feel the collective clattering of nerves, of Iberians and Incas, pulsating into, through, and beyond the last retreats of Vilcabamba.
It was then that a veteran Iberian commander's eyes flashed open, fully awakened. So, too, did Tupac's. The vision was clear for both men. Their shared dream's message was unmistakable.
Then everything went black.
And then it was my turn.
If only José could see me now. I cynically mused, sarcastically thanking the master storyteller for helping stoke this onslaught of wild insights. His stories contributed mightily to the imaginative force behind this futile fear-fight, which, I knew, would undoubtedly continue all through the night and into other days and nights. The incessant tossing and turning. The reevaluations of the whereabouts of my slithery enemies. The scratching of illusory itches, and the praying to God that all would be fine, in spite of knowing that it probably wouldn't be.
In truth: I was miserable; be it real or imagined. And my premature confidence of spending months in the jungle to learn all aspects of life, here, was fatally squashed, here, and now, by an internal, unseen monster: namely, my own fear, albeit accented with infinite Lima tales that continued to cause me chaos.
Once again, if only José could see me now...
It was 2:54 a.m. And there was a firm knock at the door.
No, as Jesus might've hoped, it wasn't David Beckham. And, no, as Eddy and I might've desired, it wasn't Posh Spice. And, still no, as Rafael might've insisted, it wasn't Pablo Escobar or any other shady narcotrafficker.
Early, yet as predicted, it was Juan Luis.
As if knowing the procedure, Eddy and I moved wearily yet quickly. Once having collected our gear, we exited Juan's home. Our host locked up shop and promptly left, on an ascent up the climbing wet path to Huancacalle. Later that day, he'd arrive to the de-solitary comforts of Cuzco. The journey, in its entirety, would be a perfect mirrored reversal of my road in.
As for my friend and me, we sat exhausted on Juanlu's doorstep, watching the light morning rain which had newly commenced. Luckily, the trusty roof of Juan Luis's home hung far enough over so as to keep us dry from the seemingly endless falling wetness.
As for my friend and me, we sat exhausted on Juanlu's doorstep, watching the light morning rain which had newly commenced. Luckily, the trusty roof of Juan Luis's home hung far enough over so as to keep us dry from the seemingly endless falling wetness.
Eddy, having slept much better than me, sat with his sleeping bag hanging snuggly over him. While he dozed off for minutes at a time, I, having given up on the prospects long before, was content just listening to the jungle sounds. They were calm and mostly distant, originating from an invisible source, somewhere in the darkness beyond. Their soothing rhythms brought me to a place, away from the instinctual, fear-ridden nightmares from the evening before, on a return back to the tranquil trail's tale to be told.
There was a faint yet fervent voice intertwining intent with the songline of the river.
Padre nuestro, que estás en el cielo, santificado sea tu nombre; venga a nosotros tu reino; hágase tu voluntad en la tierra como en el cielo. Danos hoy nuestro pan de cada día; y perdona nuestras ofensas como nosotros perdonamos a los que nos ofenden; y no nos dejes caer en la tentación, sino líbranos del mal. Amen. (Our Father prayer)
Within twenty minutes of our standing respite, two northerly-directed lights appeared, loosely bobbing to-and-fro from a southerly origin. Given our unfamiliarity to the place and its people, Eddy and I were both alarmed. And, considering that the early morning was still painted jet-black, it wasn't until the messengers arrived to the immediate area outside of Juan Luis's home when we were finally able to catch a glimpse of the light-bearers.
On this young morning in 1571, time was condensed. In spite of the stress strangling Friar Ortiz's organs, a beauty of song and sight exuded from the early-morning verdant vista of trees, and plants, and bushes. Animals added their rich song to the symphony, calling out, impeccably, as further proof of life in this precarious though divine ambiance.
When Friar Ortiz agreed to come to the New World, he was fed quite a few stories of the conquistadors and clergy of the time. After all, this was the hay-day of Spanish explorations in the Americas. All of the literature and theatre plays depicting the brave men and eventually women who were part of these land-discovering expeditions for Spanish, Portuguese, and the other European countries.
Ortiz dreamt for years to have the chance to come. Luckily for him, he had connections in Madrid, and through them, and future ones, Cuzco became his destination.
"What more could I have asked for? He told his mother in Getafe, prior to his departure for Sevilla. "This is the adventure that any man would want," said the 20-something boy, one in a long line of Spaniards seeking a long list of human curiosities and desires.
There was the ship from Sevilla. Landing in Panama. Setting sail for Lima. Then the long, endless road to Cuzco. "What more could I have wanted? Ortiz's memory shot back to his time in the Convent of St. Augustine. The days, weeks, and months of prayer, study, and busy-work. Then the chance came to journey to the Northwest Territory.
"What more could I want now?" Muttered the man who now walked the line between known and unknown realities.
Building off of these brief window views of sacred beauty and grace, Ortiz offered up another prayer from his Augustinian arsenal. This time, a mainstay mantra to quench that deep, seemingly unremitting tinge of fear at the base of his soul.
Dios te salve, Maria.
Llena eres de gracia:
El Seńor es contigo.
Bendita tú eres entre todas las mujeres.
Y bendito es el fruto de tu vientre:
Jesús.
Santa María, Madre de Dios,
ruega por nosotros pecadores,
ahora y en la hora de nuestra muerte.
Amén.
(Hail Mary prayer)
Father Ortiz rose from his prayer position to commence his dharma for the day. As he strode upon the wet, descending path into the unknown, circa 1571, even the angels scrambled to get involved at this late hour. Their infinite numbers curiously peeked from anywhere and everywhere, as they collectively wondered: is he transitioning already?
Henceforth, the Iberian priest would no longer walk the road between Vitcos and Vilcabamba, but, with each visceral step, he would now straddle the purgatorial balance between Earth and Heaven.
Of Guinea Pigs and Locals
Could this be the return of David Beckham to Vista Alegre? I humored, still excited from the previous-afternoon's relation. If so, was that his guide with him? Or, even better: his wife?
Or, could it be much worse? I worried, as my fear changed gears, guiding me back to the story from the previous year brought on by my nemesis, the Duke. Could it be someone else? Would this be our first encounter with narcos along our trail?! After all, I reasoned, we were deep in the jungle reaches of Vilcabamba. If it were to happen anywhere, it could happen here. This latter insight grew my anxiety, as Eddy and I waited out the origin of lights.
Within a couple of minutes, as the light-bearers were just arriving, identities would finally be confirmed. It was following a brief salutation by Eddy, when the truth was told.
No, they were not famous footballers. And, unfortunately, not any of their wives. And, thankfully, they were not narcotraffickers, criminals, or other social parasites. It was official: the pair was a local man and his small son, arriving home after a long night's descent from highly-propped Huancacalle.
"Buenas. Buenas (Good morning. Good morning)." The father saluted.
"Hola, cómo fue la caminata? (Hello, how was the trip?)" Eddy asked.
The man plainly responded, "Bien. Muy suave, como siempre. (Good. Very smooth, like always.)"
"Cómo se llaman? (What are your names?)" Eddy inquired.
To which the man answered. "Yo soy Elvis. Y mi hijo se llama Wilson. (I'm Elvis. And my son's name is Wilson.)"
Blown away by such a revelation at this an early hour in the madrugada, I looked to Eddy, wondering non-verbally if this was customary. He, not sharing the same nominal history as me, didn't seem to think it too strange the specificity of the pair's names.
I, too, knew that names of North-American origins were quite common throughout Latin America. In retrospect, I had already met a Jefferson, Ederson, and Wilson, in Peru. There was Edison and another Jefferson during my time in Ecuador. In Honduras, though these were more common Gringo first names, there was Jhonny (similar to Johnny), Steven, and Chad.
Meanwhile, we conversed briefly, as Eddy mentioned our journey, past, present, and future. And, seamlessly and in short-order, Elvis cordially invited Eddy and me to the family home, just down the trail. We gratefully accepted the offer, gathered our excesses, and walked with our soon-to-be hosts through the dark to their nearby jungle abode.
As we walked along the light-lit path, I couldn't help but ponder about who we might be meeting upon arrival to their home. For starters, thinking back to Elvis's trusty wife, I, naturally, surmised that Priscilla would surely be present. And wait, let's see. Brother of Wilson? I couldn't help but look to the famous movie star, whose equally trusty volleyball had been claimed and promptly named Wilson. So, I figured, at both this late and early hour, in a state of deep delirium, maybe Tom Hanks would appear? Or, at the very least, Tom or Hank might have a role to play in this unfolding saga in Vista Alegre.
A short climb-up-a-hillside-from-the-river-paralleling-trail later, and the King's home came within worthy view. And, no, it didn't look like Elvis's Graceland. But, I did wonder, had it perhaps been named Graceland?
In a sense, even if the home hadn't been, it certainly would've been befitting to name it as such, given the home's utterly gorgeous appearance. Actually, few other homes would've actually been more deserving of this title. So, in that vein, Graceland, Peruvian Elvis's soulful home on a hill, was simply magnificent.
The new day's light brought to vision the ubiquitously lush jungle-scape. It would've been impossible to label the infinite array of plant-life, let alone pick it apart. As such, I merely reveled in its beauty, grateful for the invitation into the comforts of our hosts' shelter, so comfortably tucked away into a thick jungle-foliage niche.
The Sapa Inca strode calmly along a trail up from Vilcabamba. As he did, he couldn't help but marvel at the trees, the plants, the wildlife of his small jungle village. It was truly a niche to be thankful for. A manifestation that the sacred Apus had definitely gotten right.
Whilst he walked, there was something else that returned to the King's attention. Though Tupac didn't like to talk about it, the loss of his brother, the year before, was one of the most difficult moments of his young life. 16-years his elder, Titu Cusi was as good of a role model as anyone could ever dream.
Tupac had fond memories of growing up under his brother's tutelage. More than anything, young Tupac loved to listen to Titu's stories of history, especially when they involved Cuzco and the Valley of Yucay, two places he had never laid his eyes on before.
After all, Titu had spent ample time in the former capital after his kidnapping by Gonzalo Pizarro & Co., circa 1539. Tales of the puma-shaped city, its hallowed main square, its impressive structures, and its numerous temples. And, of course, there was the grand Cori'cancha, the Temple of the Sun. The home of homes for the Sons of the Sun. The imagery of Cuzco was wildly vibrant to young Tupac, lasting in his memory, heart, and soul, forever more.
Tupac also enjoyed playing in the gardens and forests of Vilcabamba with his brother. The trails off of the citadel's main square were fun to explore as well. So much so that the two would often get into trouble, given their propensity for expanding their radius of play outside of the immediate safe zone of the capital's nucleus. Officials, guards, and family members would concern themselves omni tempore when it came to ensuring Titu's and Tupac's well-being and limiting the royal pair's recreational excesses.
Everyone just mentioned, minus Tupac, had experienced the horror of losing a loved one. After an unintended slip in security, which opened the door to outsiders, the loss came, unfortunately, in the form of homicide at the hands of the Iberians. It happened when the boys' father, Manco Inca, was attacked and killed by the same people he'd offered safe haven and allowed into the Vilcabamba Region in the first place: the fugitive Spaniards looking to regain favor from their Iberian adversaries in their quest for atonement and a hoped for return to Cuzco.
Most effected by the assassins sins was none other than Titu Cusi, who, circa 1544, at the ripe age of 15, was wholly present as the killers coalesced around his father and stabbed him to death.
When it was Inca Titu Cusi's time to go, circa 1571, Tupac not only looked back painfully to his endless bank of memories of his beloved brother, but also nostalgically back to his late brother's stories of their father, who died only months short of Tupac's birth.
What stuck most, were tales of their father's courage, patience, and pride when it came to dealing with the invading Iberians. That's not to say that Manco Inca was a perfect man, but he did embody qualities that Tupac, and surely Titu Cusi, modeled himself on. After all, had Manco Inca not employed these characteristics and put them into action, the Neo-Incan State certainly wouldn't have existed and resisted for so long. And perhaps even Sayri, Titu, and Tupac wouldn't have even become Sapa Incas at all.
In spite of these moving memories, a smile came to Inca Tupac Amaru's face, as he delighted in what he saw surrounding him in the verdant gardens of Vilcabamba. A place, for him, that simply felt like Heaven on Earth. And a place that the Sapa Inca vowed to protect, in the same way he would his people and State.
Within our immediate purview of Graceland, we straightway saw, heard, and felt the typical characteristics of a farm: chickens, pigs, and dogs accented the lovely home's exterior.
On the inside of the house there was a simple setup, everything was in-step with those furnishings one might find in most any high-mountain or high-jungle home. This, too, included, as we would find, dirt floors teeming with another kind of swine.
My first step through the short-height doorway opened my world up to an interior farm, as it were; it was something familiar and customary to many homesteads across the high Andes and its lower-lying foothills. In that moment, I couldn't help but wonder: Did Gringo Elvis have swaths of animals inside of Graceland in Memphis, too? And what about Tupac and Titu in Vilcabamba?
Regardless, given that my childhood was filled with years of tending to the high-altitude Andean rodents, their high-pitched calls were unmistakable. As I looked down to the floor, a herd of cuyes (guinea pigs) could be seen and heard, giddily racing around the packed-down dirt floor of the kitchen/dining area, as they covered every corner, nook, and niche of the home's common space. Cuyes, curiously, are kept in inner living areas of traditional campesino homes until proper fattening and maturing is achieved; at which point, lamentably for many humans and cuyes alike, they are dealt with accordingly.
Mixed in with the diminutive herd's hysteria were the busy little-human feet of our hosts' three small children. The tikes were audibly and visibly excited by the prospects of the day and, surely, by what their father had brought home with him (namely, us). Wilson, we knew already. He was the oldest boy. The girl was named Alicia, while the youngest boy was called Frank. Wow, I nonverbalized, not your customary last-names-used-as-first-names, but, fittingly, a couple more traditional European/North-American first names to boot!
Once having taken my first offered seat inside of Graceland, I witnessed in amusement the beauty of it all: the names, the excitement, the play, the simplicity, the home, and the context. For it was a certifiably surreal start to a truly adventurous day.
We ate bread, drank coffee, and conversed with our new friends. As we did, a variety of conversational topics arose: details about the upcoming trail to Vilcabamba, the lifestyles and livelihoods in the Vista Alegre community, and the wonderful site of their house. Unfortunately, not amongst our topics, howbeit, were Memphis, Blue-Suede Shoes, Peanut-butter-and-pickle sandwiches, or the history of early Rock-n-Roll. Those themes, apparently, would just have to wait.
Later, whilst comfortably resting at our friends' table, I stared out the door, taking in the air as I nourished my body with my favorite food and drink. I satisfyingly beheld the evergreenery just outside, as Friar Diego Ortiz nimbly crept back into my mind. This time, curiously, without much influence from José, Chuck, or (either) Elvis.
I contemplated: What might have been the Friar's last meals while making his way to the nether jungle reaches? Perhaps the angels would scoff at such an inquiry, my internal query, feeling that I was stepping, audaciously, on their ethereal toes.
But, nonetheless, in honor of my normal human curiosities, I pondered even further: Did Ortiz have equally-providing humanitarians along the way, as we did?
More broadly, I wondered: who, if anyone, was watching over, guiding, and nurturing Friar Diego Ortiz? At the very least, did the Iberian clergyman look to the martyr, Saint Christopher, perhaps, for protection during his seemingly doomed descent?
Meanwhile, back at Graceland, as if by divine act, the newly-birthed sun flashed its brilliant rays over my face, bringing me softly back to the material, yet heavenly, world of Vista Alegre. Is this what Tupac Amaru felt when he reveled in the impressive environs of his capital citadel? I wondered. Vilcabamba, at least in photos, resembled the vista alegre, or cheerful view, that I was privy to at the moment.
When the Going Gets Tough: Snakes, Heat, and Hallucinations
Some time later, after sufficient light had shone, my friend and I opted to get a move-on. Hence, we thanked our gracious hosts, wishing them well, forever more. Their time, attention, and food were all gifts that we truly appreciated. This experience refreshingly proved to be the antithesis of the images and ideas that Rafael had unknowingly etched in my mind: of criminal expectations. Let the unlearning (or exorcism) continue, I proclaimed to myself. The Rafael-Effect has no place in this journey! Boy, what I nice shift from the first day of the trip.
Our pace was brisk from the outset. Mysteriously, as we descended from the divine niche, I felt that we had entered an automated, effortless flow that guided us along the veritable jungle path. The cool and moist air of the early-morning yielded a welcome start to our day. Surely, this climatic comfort would change, I thought. Later on, we would certainly be met by plenty of heat.
However, prior to then, a past concern overwhelmingly reappeared, stunting my otherwise complete enjoyment of the jungle trail. Since it couldn't be the heat at this young hour, it was a rebirth of my preoccupation with snakes lurking. In fact, with each step along the foliage-broadening and thus space-narrowing trail, I was tormented by the lethal possibility.
Adding to this forest-faunal fright was the omnipresence of jungle trees and their low-hanging appendages. Invariably, as we cautiously descended the wet trail, these flimsy branches uncannily resembled the body of a snake, winding in shape, agile in movement, as they would tauntingly clasp onto my backpack, causing me abysmal and constant torture.
Given the absurdity of this incessant mental barrage, I was forced to make a compromise. An internal amends was verbally drafted between yours truly and all snakes and other shadowy reptiles of the area. A humble promise of peace was thus offered: that as long as I walked this hallowed path toward Vilcabamba, the reptiles would respectfully steer clear of our route. In short, I meant them no harm, and asked for the same in return.
Despite the lingering fear, and regardless of outcome, Eddy and I maintained a determined pace through the now ever-expanding jungle, with brush, bush, and canopy becoming increasingly thicker with each breath.
In step with mine, visuals of a scurrying nature appeared to me. Visions of Elvis's guinea pigs' feet, shuffling along that dirt floor, kept popping out at me. Even the scurrying flair with which his kids played upon that same floor shot through my awareness, prompting me to be light as I walked.
Perhaps, I bemused, even Elvis, too, had a similar flair, possibly reminiscent of his North-American namesake, whose other nickname, most of us know, was, fittingly, "the Pelvis." Since Eddy and I had already exited the vicinity of Graceland, we would never know if the Peruvian King shared the same risque moniker and ability of mobility as the Gringo King.
Rejoining the trail: by mid-morning, the sun shone stronger as the temperature steadily shot up. It was, however, still at a comfortable level for us mountain dwellers. Like Eddy, I, too, hail from a higher and cooler elevation; as such, we continued to enjoy our mostly downhill jaunt.
Later, with the river's song now sounding far below, the trail-shape shifted, alternating between large uphill climbs and short declines, as we rarely dropped within a rock's heave of the slow-moving Pampaconas rapids.
By mid-day, along this highly-propped, hillside trail, the sun became overwhelming. The temperature was now, undoubtedly, the dominating variable. And, to mostly my dismay, our drinking water stock was quickly diminishing. I alerted Eddy to this breaking news. His reply was simple: "no importa, hay chacras por alla (no problem, there are small farms up ahead)."
I could only hope that help in hydration would appear on the horizons of the great beyond. We plodded onward, along a road that only became more grueling. With each laborious step, I pleaded with the Divine to manifest my desired destiny. In the mean time, a long period of calm followed.
From this expansive silent space, the echoes of still another ancient prayer sounded:
That same voice was now even more desperate:
Señor, Dios mío, creo en ti, Padre, Hijo y Espíritu Santo. En la medida en que he podido, en la medida en que me has dado el poder, te he buscado. Me he cansado y me he esforzado. Señor Dios mío, mi única esperanza, ayúdame a creer y a no dejar de buscarte.
(Lord, my God, I believe in you, Father, Son and Holy Spirit. As far as I have been able, as far as you have given me power, I have sought you. I have wearied myself and I have labored. Lord my God, my only hope, help me to believe and not to stop seeking you.)
The vivid, life-affirming insights from hours before had completely dissolved as a rancorous distrust of the promises of Earth and Heaven seeped toxically and fully into Friar Ortiz's psyche. Each step along the decline was now a tortured step closer to his Maker.
The friar thought back to what got him here in the first place. His early life in Getafe, a town on the outskirts of Madrid. His modest upbringing. His joining of the Order of Saint Augustine in his youth. His taking advantage of the opportunity in the New World in the moment that it came.
In Peru, his learning the Quechua language so as to communicate with the native Andeans. Also, his familiarizing himself with customs and beliefs of the Incas so as to more closely understand their world and to, of course, deliver to them the Gospel.
His memory shot back to his family in Spain, his friends in seminary, and his allies over seas: in Lima, in Cuzco, and in between. It's like all of this was just one quick dream. His perception told him this, and he was left wondering where the time had gone during this whirlwind of a road.
When it came to it, Friar Ortiz could do little more than resort to a repeat of the above prayer, in what looked to be a last-ditch salvage attempt on his soul. The emotive vicissitudes of the trail had caused Friar Ortiz to seek no less than Divine Intervention at this late hour.
Now, the sounds dominating the forest were more and more cacophonous in nature: his winded breath; his strained step, and a clock, his clock, critically thumping with each labored pulse...
I, too, responded with my own inner prayer of surrender. The prominent hope in me was that my earlier decision to shed the water jug at the mission wouldn't return to haunt us down the road. Thankfully, Eddy wasn't consuming much water. I, on the other hand, had an hour before decided to curtail my slightly heavy intake, since which I'd noticed a hint of subtle hallucinations unveil and prevail.
It was then that I caught a slight sound of Chuck's voice, ostensibly compelling me to listen. Remarkably, a continuation of an almost exact retelling of the Vitcos-to-Vilcabamba route's early colonial history came forth into my attention.
The victory at Huayna Pucará, circa 1572, opened the way for a further Spanish push toward the now anxious Inca Tupac Amaru & Co., a day or two away in the retreats of Vilcabamba. Arbieto's and Sotelo's union of men, in the end, were decisive, united in resolve and intent. Thus, the mass of hundreds of Spanish and native ally soldiers were eager to complete the job at the final destination.
Prior to that ultimate battle, though, the Iberian-native contingent had to journey into the depths of more offensive and repressive jungle climes. The task would take at least a couple of days. And, although it was winter, the heat was getting to be overwhelming. For every visitor and local to such climes knows that the jungle cares not for season, since it boasts its own climatic code.
The calls from the frustrated Spanish soldiers came (in Modern Spanish, for humor's sake): "Joder, coño! Odio este lugar! (Fuck, man! I hate this place!)" The foreign men were, after all, unaccustomed to the absurdly muddy trails, thick trail-strangling foliage, high humidity and its resultant sticky suffering. "Ya no me aguanto, hombre...! (I can't take it anymore, dude!)" Even the superior officers toiled in this ridiculous novel climate.
Add to this, the equal absurdity (by modern standards) of garb choice made by the Iberians (see below). This could be considered the high summer attire, too, in contrast to a knight's selection. Nevertheless, the wardrobe, including helmet, chest plate, and other armor, would have lent to an agonizing jungle experience few modern folk would care to imagine.
As the brunt of the contingent rested in utter, sticky discomfort whilst awaiting the next call, select scouts actively and boldly scurried through the tumbling descents toward Conceivideyoc, a hop-and-a-skip from the hallowed gates of Vilcabamba. These original secret agents had been sent to spy on the actions of the loyalist Incas in their varied, scattered niches outside the super-protected perimeter of Vilcabamba proper.
Word coming back from the bold runners was that the battle at Huayna Pucará had caused the native Andeans a real doozy of commotion. The defeated army's only response, after assessing the Spaniards based on their superiorly charged will and morale at Vitcos and Huayna Pucará, was to resort to retreat. Hence, once again, the loyalist Incas were forced to flee.
For the Spaniards, in spite of their taxing physical battle with the jungle elements and the residual of battle, they knew they had their evading enemies right where they wanted them: on the run. The fall of Vilcabamba and the Inca Empire, they fancied, would only be a formality.
Pharmaceutical Goods for God's Goods: Reciprocity at its Best
The first chacra we came upon was joined by a series of neighbors. We strode along a trail, high on a hillside, that fell mildly to the riverbed, far below. Once having reached the outside fence to the first home on the chacra, Eddy and I were promptly "attacked" by a group of local children. You could say that the kids were playing a game possibly called "celebrate the arrival."
In that moment, the excitement made us feel that we were estranged heroes coming home from the longest of journey to unknown lands. That, in its own way, was true. However, unlike the theme of this narcissistic fantasy, we didn't originate from these parts. Nor were we heroes, either. We, nevertheless, enjoyed the jovial, much-needed welcome which had the effect of perking up our energy. Add to that, we made instant friends with the group of children and their guardians.
Whilst we basked in the novel celebration of our afternoon, Eddy informed me that the building that looked to be a home was, in fact, a school. As it turns out, the group of children were mostly local orphans originating from villages along the Vitcos-to-Vilcabamba road. Ranging in age from what appeared to be a few years' old (or younger) to 18 years, the kids were looked after by two (or more) teachers.
I witnessed a similar structural set-up, here, to other communities we had passed through on the mountain-to-jungle route. The shed/shack-style buildings typical in most any jungle area were also common here.
Another common characteristic that stuck out was a human physical one, and one that was evident on almost every child of the school: their bellies. Clearly, lack of proper nutrition was the culprit. Once again, visions of that same haunting, José-inspired dream reappeared, still difficult to place in any context of time or place.
As soon as Tupac's head hit pillow, he'd entered into yet another eerie dream-state. This time, he returned to his point-of-view:
Hunger pangs also haunted both husband and wife as they pressed their physical boundaries. Incredibly, it was something else that dominated their conscious worry: their fervid escape through the deep jungles of Momorí led them further, and dangerously, into enemy lands, a fate neither of them desired.
It had been several, now countless, days since the couple's hurried flight from Vilcabamba. And, in search of deeper hiding, away from the constant Spanish pursuit, their road had led them here, to the frontier between worlds known and unknown.
To this immediate, double difficulty of hunger and exhaustion, the pregnant wife lamented to her king: "No creo que pueda seguir por más tiempo, mi amor (I don't think I can go any longer, my love)."
The Sapa Inca shook awake as he was left with a singular sensation: It felt that this would be one of the last times the king would hear this concerning complaint.
What was going on?! He wondered. The evacuation of the citadel had yet to be ordered. Nobody had even left Vilcabamba, and he was already having visions of some venture through a nightmare of jungle, deep in the recesses of his subconscious. He worried, still. His dream-visions were showing him something that brought outright panic to the great king.
As this disturbing factor sunk in, I immediately popped back into my current reality. In that moment, I realized an equally disturbing aspect of life in the jungle: it's a challenging place to live, offering a precarious livelihood.
As I was to find, many people living in these areas along the road were relatively new settlers who had been granted permission by the Peruvian government to lay stake in these lands.
Historically, "relocation" as a technique has been popular in that it was seen as a more subtle way of "civilizing" the jungle and its inhabitants. It could be understood as a less harsh form of eugenics. For example, establishing missions in frontier zones to enable dominant cultural drift upon native populations, a la Fray Garcia and Ortiz (or in any colonial situation). In this thinking, the Christianization process would do the rest of the maturing, educating, domesticating, or what have you, of the native peoples.
In a modern-day sense, relocation has been a method to alleviate the land problem for numerous small-scale and subsistence farmers who have been forced off of and away from their land by bigger outfits and businesses. This has taken place all over Peru, especially over the last 50 years, from jungle, to mountains, to coastal areas, and all over the world, for that matter.
It's been said, fascinatingly, that few people, if any, starved during the age of the Incan Empire. Such was the quality of organization and level of abundance of foodstuffs during that time period. It's estimated that today cultivation levels are only around 25% of what they were approximately five hundred years ago. When one travels to various areas through the Andes, including foothills and high jungles, it's striking the amount of abandoned chacras there are in the mosaic-patterned landscapes. Not to mention, those other forever fallow lands that are hidden from view in the unseen reaches off of the main Andean roads and trails.
As Eddy and I would unfortunately witness in the coming days, piggybacking on this reality of reduced farming for subsistence agriculture, malnutrition was commonplace in children and adults, alike. In lieu of more organized, long-term organization and assistance, for the time being, I was resolved to provide in whichever way I could.
Ironically, within a few minutes of wondering about malnutrition and wandering around this small community, we were approached by a twenty-something year-old woman. Her worried eyes said it all. Here question only gave us more clarity, as she tensely asked, "Uds. tienen una forma de medicina? Mi papá está muy enfermo (Do you have some form of medicine? My father is very sick)."
My friend and I looked to one another with mirrored, honest hopes of assisting this concerned woman and her bedridden, ailing father. In realizing the likely futility of any such hopes, I immediately pulled out my "medicine cabinet" from my backpack. This simple, Zip Lock plastic bag filled with a diverse collection of pills and first-aid materials often came in handy.
As I foraged through the many goods, ranging anywhere from oils, to medical tape, to a plethora of pills, I prayed for anything that might help in this strenuous sitch. Soon after my Divine pleads, I happened upon a half-full bottle of Aleve; the perfect remedy for a pain-related medical issue. And, I figured, in this particular moment, more than anything else, a suitable placebo.
I offered the bottle to the woman, certain that it would serve some purpose. She looked at the bottle and, without discernment, gratefully accepted the gift, whilst promptly offering my friend and me a dozen granadillos, surely from a surrounding trees. We humbly accepted her gift. And, given that both of us were insanely thirsty, we simultaneously darted our hands into the bag, pulled out the succulent jungle fruits, and devoured their goodness.
Her luck, I simply prayed would improve. Our luck, I surmised, temporarily couldn't have been better.
The going for another person, however, couldn't have been anymore stunning or bewildering.
It had been three days since Friar Ortiz had consumed anything other than a few sips of river water periodically along the road. At this point, the weary priest had pushed himself to a place of utter desperation. He had no appetite, little use for more water, nor any other real material need. Not one.
Not only had his consumption stalled, his conscious prayer, too, had stopped. In its place, incoherent mutters and murmurs were representative of this betwixt and between space: Ni aquí, ni allá (Neither here, nor there); a whereabouts limboing between Earth and the Divine.
In a surrendered state of death-in-the-body, in veritable trance, the 38 year-old man descended the lonely trail on his way to the outer limits of Vilcabamba proper, to Marcanay: a place that held definitively, Ortiz's flailing fate in the material world.
Our ravenous attack on the granadillos continued as we were able to rebalance our physical needs. I found these divine fruits to be a better form of hydration than water; they were a perfect assault on our thirst and brought a quenching to our psychological distress. Within a few moments, after slurping their high-water nectar, I felt fully satiated and ready to recommence our journey.
Prior to our exit from the small community, we joked briefly with the children of the school, while chatting with their teachers. I would've liked to have stayed longer, but Eddy and I were pressed for sunlight, our most trusted ally on the road through the jungle.
Prior to our exit from the small community, we joked briefly with the children of the school, while chatting with their teachers. I would've liked to have stayed longer, but Eddy and I were pressed for sunlight, our most trusted ally on the road through the jungle.
As we walked off into the distance, I prayed a happy prayer for the father of the woman, hoping that my small contribution could provide some form of magical relief.
The Plateau of the Divine
In truth, back on the trail, the going was getting tough. The heat of the sun was devastating on our ascent up the next large hill. And, by the time we reached our subsequent stop, I was again dying of thirst. Our only respite from parched mouth and body was, questionably, via the consumption of soda: a dubious move, but, seemingly, my only hope.
The Plateau of the Divine
In truth, back on the trail, the going was getting tough. The heat of the sun was devastating on our ascent up the next large hill. And, by the time we reached our subsequent stop, I was again dying of thirst. Our only respite from parched mouth and body was, questionably, via the consumption of soda: a dubious move, but, seemingly, my only hope.
We exchanged pleasantries with the family whose property we were infiltrating. Then, in a half-daze, I asked for, paid for, and received my highly-sought, temporary liquid-gratification. I slurped down the tepid corn-syrup concoction while delighting in momentary flashes of satisfaction. These pockets of goodness then slowly dissipated, yielding an onset of sugary dryness, permeating my mouth and throat.
Notwithstanding this bittersweet tease at satiation, Eddy and I pressed on, like clockwork, descending the trail into the expanding thicket of jungle. It was from here that the wild hallucinations commenced anew, providing access to a continuance of José's stable tale.
Surely owing to a lifetime of rote recitation, a subtle prayer thrust its way into Ortiz's consciousness. Regardless, the message was fitting:
Dios mío, haz que te conozca y te ame, para que pueda encontrar mi felicidad en ti. Ya que no puedo lograrlo plenamente en la tierra, ayúdame a mejorar cada día hasta que pueda hacerlo plenamente. Permíteme conocerte cada vez más en la tierra, para que pueda conocerte perfectamente en el cielo. Ayúdame a amarte cada vez más en la tierra, para que pueda amarte perfectamente en el cielo. Así mi alegría será grande en la tierra y perfecta contigo en el cielo. Oh Dios de la verdad, concédeme la felicidad del cielo para que mi alegría sea plena según tu promesa. Mientras tanto, haz que mi mente se detenga en esa felicidad, que mi lengua hable de ella, que mi corazón la anhele, que mi boca la pronuncie, que mi alma tenga hambre de ella, que mi carne tenga sed de ella y que todo mi ser la desee hasta que entre a través de la muerte en el gozo de mi Señor para siempre. Amén
(My God, let me know and love you, so that I may find my happiness in you. Since I cannot fully achieve this on earth, help me to improve daily until I may do so to the full. Enable me to know you ever more on earth, so that I may know you perfectly in heaven. Enable me to love you ever more on earth, so that I may love you perfectly in heaven. In that way my joy may be great on earth, and perfect with you in heaven. O God of truth, grant me the happiness of heaven so that my joy may be full in accord with your promise. In the meantime let my mind dwell on that happiness, my tongue speak of it, my heart pine for it, my mouth pronounce it, my soul hunger for it, my flesh thirst for it, and my entire being desire it until I enter through death in the joy of my Lord forever. Amen)
The prayer pulsated through Friar Ortiz's awareness for the next many hours, with an ardent emphasis on the last line: haz...que todo mi ser la desee hasta que entre a través de la muerte en el gozo de mi Señor para siempre. (let...my entire being desire it until I enter through death in the joy of my Lord forever.)
A renewed smile came over Ortiz's face. His countenance was freed, as his spirit reached and touched new heights of inspiration.
My utmost material-world concern was now our water situation. Our bottles by 10 a.m. were atrociously low. There was a paired stress at this instance: not knowing where or if we could purchase water along the coming trail; and our unclear duration to the destination-point at Vilcabamba. These unknowns weighed enormously on my mind, body, and soul.
Added to that, we weren't even certain whether our arrival to Vilcabamba would be later that same day or at some point during the following day. However, I reasoned, based on an average of the proposed times polled, it was likely that we'd be arriving to the sacred ruin-site sometime that evening.
Riding this wave of hallucinations, I voraciously started to explore some more onset visuals. Among the fantasies dancing in my mind was an impromptu rain storm, that jungle phenomenon often known to surprise inhabitants of these climes. As I entertained this glorious idea, I ventured yet again into another José-inspired daydream.
For the better part of the day, Tupac had had most of the dream-visions. Now, apparently, it was my turn:
The smell of smoke was bombarding. These never-ending plumes blinded my eyes of any view. However, one sensation that lasted was that I knew I was surely in the jungle. But what was all of this smoke about?
After a shocked search about the ground, just above the smoke plumes, I could finally make out a large canopy in the background. Aside from this, and aside from the smoke, there seemed little else present. It was an eerie sensation. In spite of this visual and pulmonary shock, I had the sense that there weren't people or animals around. Where was I?
I, then, though only briefly, began to make out the foundations of what appeared to be a stone wall. As I worked my way around the seemingly circular wall, I then located an identical one beside it. The stone work, I came to see and feel, was at once familiar and impressive.
As I went along the wall's perimeter, it began to feel like I was in a village gone aflame. I intuited that the beams and roofs had been burnt; all that was left were the stone foundations and walls, invariably, in the end, U-shaped.
What happened to this place? I awed. It seemed that without any people present, with little more than heat, and flames, and smoke causing any fuss, there would be no way to find immediate answers.
Reentering the realm of the forest, there was now no denying: the heat was oppressive. To further shock me back into reality, moreover, the omnipresent masses of mosquitoes were omnipotently offensive, seemingly in every direction.
A Fall from Grace
It felt like each uphill and downhill combination just formed the structure and arrangement of the same song played on repeat, causing boredom, confusion, and frustration. For hours, we laboriously followed the same pattern (with the river below acting as our compass along the length of the river valley): climb up the hill while winding toward the lower-lying river. Then, once at the top, a downhill commenced, running in a direction away from the river.
At this point, our journey had turned to survival. As I approached a near breaking point, my former internal prayers turned aggressively to impatient, desperate cries for nothing less than divine intervention.
Friar Ortiz didn't need any more intervention, however; he was satisfied just existing in his refound bliss, as he walked in a meditative jaunt along this road beyond...
Something had simply clicked inside. All of the things of the past now didn't matter. The actions done, the words said, the events that transpired. It's like everything instantly dissolved, releasing effortlessly up into the ethers of the calm jungle sky.
Those same heavenly-dwelling angels wondered the same thoughts from before. Now, it appeared, the only question that remained for Friar Ortiz was: when?
Somethings, miraculously, shifted in me, as well. My pace slowed; my preoccupations subsided. Surrender became my center-of-focus and, instantly, my reality.
I figured, perhaps like Ortiz, that if death be bestowed, then I would be departing in a majestic jungle paradise. I breathed out any remnants of frustration. And, having recommenced my prayers, I chose to trust that my intention for and visualizations of water would soon be divinely heard, honored, and made manifest.
News of Concevideyoc, our prospective next stop on the trail, soon came by way of an arierro (a muleteer). The limber older man told us "fifteen minutes, no more," until we'd reach the pueblito. My heart raced at the news, as delightful images of my basking in abundant water-consumption followed. A true Godsend, I imagined.
And it was here that I finally allowed myself to consider the uncomfortable. The inevitable. I could only put it off for so long. Simply put: it was along this part of the trail, circa 1571, that Friar Ortiz made his last stand.
A day short of reaching the legendary confines of Vilcabamba, Ortiz needed, and, thus, attempted to gain permission for entry into the city. After having excruciatingly waited at Marcanay for some time, the royal response finally came. In spite of the arduous, and, for Ortiz, torturous, two- or three-day journey of descent, word came that Tupac Amaru had ultimately denied the Iberian holy man entry into Vilcabamba proper.
Shocked and unclear of what came next, Friar Ortiz stood as tense as he'd ever felt in his life. A familiar feeling, probably close to what he experienced after having been accused, along with Martin Pando, of killing Inca Titu Cusi in Vitcos. Maybe even similar to those sensational pangs he felt at his church in Huancacalle upon confessing his inability to raise the same late Inca from the dead.
The next step wouldn't require a long, drawn-out wait, however. With no anticipated royal missives en route up from Vilcabamba, the Incan soldiers charged with protecting the threshold into the city took the matter upon themselves.
As such, on that rainy, miserable winter day on the jungly heights of Marcanay, the hour had arrived. That mortal hour. The angels all braced themselves for what they intuited would come next. Even Saint Christopher paused in his busy schedule to send extra compassion to young Ortiz as he neared his final moment.
A moment that arrived when one of the loyalist guards gave a swift, deliberate blow of club to head, causing Friar Ortiz to collapse in a heap. There, on the muddy jungle floor, under an inundating rain, a Spanish light was promptly extinguished.
The Iberian's stunned soul, first, took confused pause while still trapped inside his near-lifeless body. Moments on, Ortiz's essence naturally released, beginning its desired, glorious ascent to the heavenly comforts of its Maker. From now on, there were no more feelings of fear or doubt. No more guilt or sin. Not even desire. From this ethereal, peaceful place, his spirit had fused with the spaciousness of the infinite Oneness. Friar Diego Ortiz had finally achieved what his lifetime of praying attempted: full mergence with God.
Entering the village of Concevideyoc, we were immediately met by an old indigenous woman. As we saluted her, we informed her of our pressing need for water in whatever shape or form. She promptly showed us to her make-shift store. Curiously, my prior moments of relief in the form of surrender, a la Friar Ortiz, immediately disappeared.
Instead, I instinctually entered the store as if guided by the devil. It wasn't an understatement: my soul burned for primal pleasure. And I, at this point, would stop at no point, for any person or thing.
Amongst my infernal rage, which purely described my psychophysical state, there it was, sitting so innocently on the three weeks' dusty shelf just above and behind the old woman. My elixir: water! Cool, cool water! The means of balancing my craze would come only in the form of an unopened flat of one-dozen San Luis bottles.
I hastily inquired as to the price. The cost would be outrageous, I assumed, given the utter ruralness of our location. So, when the old woman replied "ocho soles (eight soles)," I knew the asking price would be cutting at the heart of my scant money-supply.
So, I scavenged my backpack, on a desperate search for any form of currency. Hours previously, however, I had inspected my bag, finding no sign of anything other than a badly-torn twenty-dollar bill, U.S., a difficult pass in any busy city in Peru, let alone in this ruralest of rural stops.
As such, the usual excitement with which people normally accept the latter currency in just about Anywhere, World, was all but absent in the wild depths of the Vilcabamba jungle.
"Esto, sí. (This, yes.)" The lady said, accepting eight-out-of-nine soles.
"Eso, no. (That, no.)" She affirmed, while passing on my torn, retched twenty for all the predictable reasons. She then explicitly stated: it's difficult to exchange for, in her words, "real" money (read: her unfamiliarity to this strange currency); and due to the horrible tear down the middle of the bill, a certain marker of devaluation with any currency exchange person in any town or city in Peru.
"Cuánto me darás? (How much will you give me?)" I rebelled, negotiating a lower exchange rate.
To this, the lady adamantly shook her head, coldly denying me anything.
Frustration grew, as Eddy and I began to offer the Concevideyoc woman other commodities: yogurt, granola bars, trail mix, and anything else we could think of.
The search for commodities continued until one stood out principally from the rest: Sugar! Aha! Sugar! That previously thought-to-be money- and space-waste. Would it prove to be a profitable ally in this desperate situation?! I could only hope.
In prompt reaction to each offer, the woman, invariably shot down each and every proposal. But, as consolation following the barter barrage, she politely offered us a drink from her boiled water pot out on the patio.
Resigned, we accepted defeat. Though, I, more frustrated than my friend, was less enthusiastic about the prospects, for I knew that this amount of water wouldn't be sufficient to quench our thirsts' inevitable return once having reentered the trail anew.
Once having calmed down a notch, I asked the lady the distance to our ultimate destination. She replied, "Tres horas más (three more hours)." Soon after, so as to confirm her uncertainty, she asked a leisurely-strolling man the same question. His bewildering reply: "Dos horas más (two more hours)."
Once having calmed down a notch, I asked the lady the distance to our ultimate destination. She replied, "Tres horas más (three more hours)." Soon after, so as to confirm her uncertainty, she asked a leisurely-strolling man the same question. His bewildering reply: "Dos horas más (two more hours)."
So there we had it. Continued confusion from Concevideyoc. I initially attributed this perceived unclarity to laziness or indifference, but later I realized that it probably wasn't either. Perhaps these folks were less tied to the clock than this norteamericano.
Unfortunately for me, I was a lost cause. An uncouth move followed that would impact my, in that moment, present reputation and future memory.
My abysmal, primal instinct shot forth from my soul, as I involuntarily glared into the eyes of the stubborn old woman. It was an event of which I have little recollection, given the black-out nature of the event. In that utterly inconsolable moment, I had to have two things: large quantities of drinking water; and to know the time duration until Vilcabamba, our touchstone on this seemingly endless and apparently timeless jaunt into the unknowns.
My frustration was present to all. Eddy took the hint, and thus the initiative, by saying, "gracias por toda su ayuda (thank you for all of your help)," promising a return (by him, at least) in the near future.
My frustration was present to all. Eddy took the hint, and thus the initiative, by saying, "gracias por toda su ayuda (thank you for all of your help)," promising a return (by him, at least) in the near future.
I did my best, muttering a short, "gracias." But, surely, the result came off as fabricated, at best, and little more. Simply put, I was fuming. And I was tired of this trip.
A Further Fall from Grace
Regardless of mood, we boldly moved on from the Concevideyoc lady's property. Eddy, sensing my aggression, led the way as I followed closely behind. This closeness probably surprised my friend given that I had been quite the trailer for the better part of the journey.
I, now, more than ever before, was driven, impatient. I pounded the already hard-packed dirt with each step, more and more negatively inspired with every movement forward. Vilcabamba was our goal. And, as long as it involved me, we would reach its grounds before any and all of the loosely projected times mentioned by the myriad and mostly misinformed locals.
Sure enough, within the first ten minutes of our renewed, impassioned jaunt, we crossed paths with a man coming from the other direction. Eddy and I saluted him, cordially, then made the same inquiry. The vibrant and upbeat local man told us that Espiritu Pampa, or Vilcabamba, sat "una hora más (one hour more)" from our current location.
Sure enough, within the first ten minutes of our renewed, impassioned jaunt, we crossed paths with a man coming from the other direction. Eddy and I saluted him, cordially, then made the same inquiry. The vibrant and upbeat local man told us that Espiritu Pampa, or Vilcabamba, sat "una hora más (one hour more)" from our current location.
"Bien! (Great!)" I exclaimed, heartened by the news. "Muchas gracias! I said, as we kept going so as to maintain our brisk pace, while riding this new-found enthusiasm.
José's tale continued on, now right on line with our road.
Early the next morning, Tupac awoke, still feeling his three rounds of nightmares now weighing heavily on his conscious mind and heart.
Descending into unknowns wasn't unknown to the young Sapa Inca, for his lifetime and before had been a constant of his people being pushed back on. The Incas, prior to Tupac's birth in 1545, had been expelled from Cuzco by the Spanish. By virtue of horses, steel, tact, and luck, the Iberians forced the Andeans, by sword or by shadow, to retreat evermore unto the northwesterly trail of fears. A trail on whose nodes the natives would vacillate for three decades on. Yucay. Cuzco. Yucay. Ollantaytambo. Vitcos, Vilcambamba, Vitcos... Vilcabamba.
Now, it was time to face another breakthrough: a breaking out of the comforts of a society on defense in a mid-term makeshift city or two. Goodbye, Vitcos. Goodbye, Vilcabamba.
Tupac demanded his generals and officials meet him immediately.
Thus, five minutes on, the group of ten sat intently, inside of the main Vilcabamba temple of Tendi Pampa. Tupac was the only one to speak that morning. The others immediately knew their role would be to listen, and only to listen.
"Last night, the final message came." He affirmed. "I don't need to explain anything at length. Let me say that what was shown was sufficient to warn me of the travails on the road to come. The vision couldn't have been more clear."
The officials adjusted themselves, as one looked to the other, with uniform unease.
"The earlier we escape, the better our chances." The Sapa Inca continued, as he cautioned. "This won't be as smooth as we thought. Everybody must be ready for the trials ahead. The jungle will be difficult to navigate. Therefore, we must leave today. We'll have three hours to collect our goods and move out."
Tupac and his entourage would stay true to the time-schedule. They'd be thusly on the move again. And, though he didn't voice it: by boat or by foot, the Sapa Inca knew that his people would be going up against a primary enemy in the Spanish, and, additionally, a many-headed enemy in the form of the almost infinite plethora of Amazonian indians, hated historical enemies of the Incas.
The rest of the trek to Vilcabamba would prove equally ominous for this gringo. The excitement-stunter appeared just minutes later in the form of several hundred consecutive giant stone steps which radically descended to the base of the town below; an enormous drop from the high-perched nest of Concevideyoc to the low-lying reliefs of Espiritu Pampa/Vilcabamba.
Upon experiencing the first segment of giant steps, I began to curse: to myself, to the town below, to the region beyond. Then, I included others. I immediately called out to the gods, all of them, seeking some form, any form, of respite from this God-forsaken death descent. The real issue at the bottom of all my petty complaints: my excruciatingly pained knees.
Several years prior, as a young teenager, I began to experience the onslaught of Osgood Schlatter's Disease, the painful result of excess activity and overuse of one's knees. This condition still affects me since it has caused my knees to become overly sensitive, especially during high-impact exercise. And, our case here was a perfect example of the dire result of such hyperactivity.
To paint it to you right: the pain was so intense that with each forward lunge taken onto a giant step below, my knee felt as if a ligament or two would snap. On every and each of the thousand-plus lunges taken. One can imagine the pain that comes with pushing your knees to this precarious point, over and over and over.
Then, came a flash from memory of Rafael. That God-forsaken Uruguayan who spewed fear in the form of threatening the presence of utterly non-existent narcos running wild through the entirety of the Peruvian jungle. Notwithstanding this false scare for a minute, in this moment, of abysmal life, my life, I cursed the air, inviting any such criminal characters to try their luck with me. I, after all, was invincible. Though, definitely more probable, I was a plainly tormented soul: lost, indifferent, inconsolable, and, clearly, ready for anything. And, yes, in a strange way, even ready for death.
In that hopeless moment, I wondered if my arduous endeavor was perhaps but a mirror to the endeavor on which Tupac Amaru & Co. would be embarking. All signs pointed to more difficulty for the loyalist Incas as they'd now disjoin to attempt their individualized survival in the deeper jungles of Vilcabamba.
Going back to myself, I also pondered another outcome: whether Friar Diego Ortiz might have experienced the more desirable outcome: death on the heights of Marcanay by swift strike and prompt burial. I wondered, internally: would death have been better if it had been bestowed on me?
If it had been my time, I, at least, could've avoided the satanic staircase, which was clearly a last defense installed by the Incas to discourage and/or slowdown the horse-riding Spaniards from entrance into Vilcabamba.
As it turns out, Ortiz's corpse was placed upside-down in a hole, with a pinch of saltpeter and a blessing of chicha (the maize-derived Andean beer). If not death, then, surely, saltpeter and chicha would've sufficed.
All jokes aside, despite this strenuous downward climb, my choice was clear: I didn't relent. In the end, I couldn't. So, from the point of entry at the high perch, through the hundreds (into the thousands?) of cascading giant steps, to the eventual retreats of Vilcabamba, I was officially operating in another dimensional realm. Along the stomping of steps, my mantra was singular, as it effectively cut through my hugely negative, annoyed mind: "Yes, I can!" With each step: "Yes, I can!" With each doubt: "Yes, I can!" With each call for rest: "Yes, I can!"
In short, I would reach the loyalist Incas' last capital in spite of any psychophysical anguish attempting to stunt my arrival to those legendary grounds. Regardless of snakes, thirst, knee pain, narcos, or anything else, I would arrive.
However, in spite of my myriad woe, one question still lingered: Who or what would meet us upon arrival to Vilcabamba? At this moment, I knew it could be anyone: from David Beckham, to his guide, to his wife; from Elvis, to Wilson, to a herd of guinea pigs; from Pablo Escobar's ghost, to a ghost of Tupac Amaru and his wife. At this point, anything was proving to be possible.
Copyright, Patrick Roseblade. All Rights Reserved, 2021
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