You can't always get what you want...

Machu Picchu. The name alone evokes an exotic, wonderful destination, like Kathmandu or Timbuktu, yes?

Perhaps it's the "u" ending. But then, how do we explain Breslau, Nebraska's total lack of popularity?

It's a mystery.

What was even more of a mystery, to me, anyway, is that I, for some inexplicable reason,  never especially wanted to go to Machu Picchu. (Mike was so perplexed and surprised by this the first time I said it I think he stuttered.) Now that we were actually there, why wasn't I thrilling to the experience, the landscape, the history?  I have a degree in anthropology, for crying out loud -this should have been the trip of a lifetime.

What I felt instead was tired, a little grouchy, even irritable. This gnawed at me, which, no surprise, made me even more irritable. Had I grown tired of travel? Had I become a spoiled, hard to impress snob? Had other sites like Ephesus in Turkey and Jerash and Petra in Jordan ruined my ability to enjoy...ruins? Where was my excitement?

The narrow path up from where the buses spit us out was positively clogged with men coming down, straining beneath unwieldy loads of cables, amplifiers, plywood, speakers, and one guy with an inexplicable but obviously very heavy stack of round barbell weights.

Love the shirt.

A massive light and sound spectacle had taken place the night before to celebrate the 100 year anniversary of Machu Picchu's rediscovery, and now all the equipment had to be humped out.

So we climbed stone steps in the thin air and tried to stay out of their way. Especially the guys carrying plywood. Those guys could take you out.

Finally the path opened up and the iconic view spread out beneath us, absolutely postcard perfect:

We'd gotten perfect weather, a clear day, and the ruins, situated in the middle of nowhere, are stunning. Maybe it had never made my bucket list, but wow anyway.

Our russet-skinned, almond-eyed guide, who may or may not have been named Mario, waited patiently and with humor while all his wards caught up, then began what was obviously a well-rehearsed tour, introducing us to the lay of the land, then having each of us say our names and countries of origin to the rest of the group.

It was about this point that I began to realise the real source of my irritation: I didn't want to be in a stupid group, following a flag on a stick . I wanted to go explore, not stand around introducing ourselves. To be perfectly honest, why should any of us care where the other people were from? If we wanted to know we could ask, right?

somewhat aloof llama

This is not to say I'm anti-tour group, exactly; Mike and I had been in tour groups before, but with our kids. More often than not, with kids or without, we'd hacked our own way though places, and we'd never gone on a group tour when it was just the two of us. If there was no danger of getting lost, why follow like cows?

If I'd had half a brain I would've told Mike, "let's ditch this" and followed my instincts.

Mistake #1: I didn't and I should know better; ignoring how you feel is a recipe for discontent. This was our vacation, we should have done what we wanted to do, instead of being foolishly constrained by the idea that we should be "polite".  So we stood and listened while trying to disguise longing looks over the rest of the ruins, walked when we were told to walk, which included painfully waiting, exhibiting carefully arranged and held expressions of patience, for the slower members of the group.

The people in this category included an elderly woman who was both frail and determined to proceed without any assistance from others (I kind of admired her spunk, to be honest), those who had worn what I will charitably describe as unsuitable shoes for the terrain, (not just women!) and those who took pictures of everything and looked at their digital screens the rest of the time. These last folks were somewhat hazardous to the rest of us, stumbled a lot, and tended to walk into things, but no one was actually lost off the various and daunting precipices.

Our guide had the habit of stepping right to the edge and then turning his back to certain and painful death, perching there while giving his spiel.

It added some zest to his presentation, to be sure.

Mistake #2: Since we'd planned on being in the tour Mike and I hadn't read up ahead of time about the area. We had watched Nova's Ghosts of Machu Picchu and been dutifully impressed with the engineering feat, particularly with the terracing and water, but our group didn't get into that level of analysis. The tour focused more on the story of Bingham discovering Machu Picchu, the idea that it was  probably built as a place of worship for Incan royalty, and how it was created with an eye to the movement of the stars and sun. This was all relevant and good stuff, of course.

Mistake #3: listening to the guide's answers to questions posed by the group, we all began to realise they weren't answers at all, which led to the realisation that he didn't really understand English all that well and was giving the tour by rote. There was some grumbling. In other words, Mike and I could have gotten the same tour by ourselves, on our own time schedule, out of our guidebook, had I brought the guidebook. Whoops.

It must be said there are many questions about Machu Picchu that may never be answered:"Why and for whom was Machu Picchu built? How was it built? and why did they build it in such a remote location?" Then there is the favorite factoid that everyone repeats: you can't fit a knife between (some of ) the stones at Machu Picchu, despite the lack of mortar.

rather like a really heavy jigsaw puzzle.

Honestly, you can't pick up anything about Machu Picchu and not read about the knife thing. Sometimes an enterprising individual substitutes "piece of paper" for "knife" but you know, that's neither as vivid nor as impressive sounding.

Perhaps they could sell commemorative knives at the site to tourists so everyone can have a go at it?

Then again, maybe not. Those stones have been there for a long time and while the government has wisely limited the daily visitor count to 2500, that's still a lot of people. Tourists should probably not be given sharp objects as a general rule, anyway.

Especially cranky ones.

At one point our guide asked the group how we thought the masses of rock had been brought, some from far away, and then shaped without the benefit of either the wheel or iron tools.

Mike raised his hand and said with a grin that he didn't know how they'd done it, but that he had seen how they were moving all the tons of equipment back down the mountain.

Which made our guide throw back his head and howl with laughter.

Mike looked pleased with himself. That was a high point.

The Sun Temple. Yes, very nice. Again, no sharp objects allowed.

Actually, they don't allow a number of things into Machu Picchu. Including bottled water. We ignored this rule, deciding that not having water at altitude was a really stupid idea. 

just outside the gate they'll sell you a can of pop for $5.62.

Also, they don't actually search your bags. You're supposed to check them, but we'd also read that it isn't the greatest idea -things stolen, lost, and kind of a pain to wait in line unless you're stowing a backpack and tent. 

The question that kept bobbing to the surface of my mind was why do we marvel today that the Incans worshipped the sun and were strongly aware of the seasons and stars? As farmers and religiously driven people trying to make sense of their world, they should have be aware of such things, much more than we are today. We have central heating and calendars, television and internet to distract us, so we're not motivated in the same way.

The guide probably wouldn't have been able to answer that one. Then again, maybe he would. I spent my time being quiet so the tour could end sooner rather than later.

I liked how even the most inexpert eye could see the different types of building techniques used,

and I tried not to roll my eyes when the group showed great interest in the titillating details of human sacrifice, the guide trying to both please his guests and to put a positive PR-friendly spin on it.

I began to think that my anthropology background was a drawback.

Then there my personal favorite, and I suppose I'm being gently sarcastic here, the Intihuatana stone, translated as the "hitching post of the sun".

People approached with reverence and stretched their hands over the roped off area to the sacred rectangle to feel the energy emanating as warmth or even visions from its surface. I, myself, would call that particular magic retained heat from the sun, but as no one ever got popular or rich by being a skeptic, we'll leave it at that and let you make your own decision.

I think, had we gotten to wander guide-free, despite the lack of interpretive signs, we would have had a much better time. And, as I've heard over and over again, if you hike the Inca Trail, earning your Machu Picchu experience, if becomes something utterly different.

porters along the Inca Trail

I wished we could have been there at night, or at sunrise, that we could has the time to climb up Huayna Picchu, the mountain overlooking Machu Picchu, and seen the view and temple there,  not following but instead discovering and marvelling and learning for ourselves.

but it was not to be.

The tour ended. Warned repeatedly to catch a bus back in time to board our train, we were hot and tired and any impetus for wanting to explore had faded like a forgotten dream. We gave the guide a tip, probably for laughing at Mike's joke and not falling backwards off a cliff. All we wanted to do was to find a quiet spot,  and rest and eat the nice snacks packed for us by our hotel and look over the landscape. Preferably away from the constant whistles that were sounded by site guards every time a tourist trespassed somewhere they weren't supposed to. Which was constantly.

Interestingly, it was perfectly OK to be an idiot and lean over precipices and the like. They weren't trying to save lives, just the site.

Fair enough.

Fortunately for my mood, (and for Mike who chooses to put up with me,) there were llamas...

People all over the world, join hands, start a love train, love train...

Before the sun even thought about coming up, Mike and I were hustling our way down the stairs, sucking up bottled waters and squinting at the world through a decided lack of coffee. Coca tea didn't cut it, for all it's supposed to be a stimulant; in fact, if you have an expedition you must provide a certain amount of leaves per porter to chew or they refuse to carry their load.

Not unlike the free coffee at Western office workplaces.

Trying for "when in Rome, do as the Romans do," Mike even picked up some Coca "altitude sickness energizer" candy:

I am sorry to report that it was absolutely disgusting. We're not sure whether it worked or not; he ate it, and was fine. I tasted it, decided I'd rather eat dirt, and was also fine with the altitude.

Outside, one of the dutiful drivers was waiting patiently for us in his little car; we piled in and settled back, watching outside as the morning slowly creeped upon us. I had a happy photography moment and, through the passenger side window, caught this image of parents heavily laden with their little girl joyfully racing along.

The Machu Picchu Vistadome Train chuffed in repose at the station, lengthy and blue, the thin air redolent with the smells of diesel, coffee, and the secondhand smoke from those passengers sucking on last-minute cigarettes before boarding. I think just about every nationality was represented among the passengers queing up, checking their cameras, murmuring to each other in Spanish, English, German, Japanese...

The train goes from Poroy Station out through the Sacred Valley, past places with intriguing names like Izcuchaca, Ollantaytambo, Quoriwayrachina, and my personal favorite, Chachabamba. Not only does it sound like a Ritchie Vallens song, but it's also another lost and then found ( this time in 1940) archaeological treasure.

Closer to Machu Picchu, our ultimate destination, the train runs alongside the iconic Inca Trail. We were to eat a gourmet lunch and have a glass of wine from the comfort of the train whilst waving to the grimy backpackers and give the impression that we were having a better time than they.


Perhaps, perhaps not. But we'd have a good try at it, regardless.


OK, I admit it. The train felt like cheating. I would have loved to have hiked the trail and, well,  earned my Machu Picchu. At least, I loved the idea of hiking the trail, sounded epic, a rite of passage, a real experience.

Practically speaking, trying to fit the Incan Trail into our time in Peru fell somewhere between a silly idea and an idiotic one. We had neither gear nor time, and we do love trains, after all. What kind of ninny isn't satisfied with a cush trip? So I tried to let it go.

The train excursion then, as excursions are wont to be, was a splurge for us. The folks at PeruRail,  knowing full well that for travelers with limited time and once-in-a-lifetime mentality, (when would we be back in Southeastern Peru again?) would be willing to pay. The domed window train was touted as the one with to the best views, so we went for it.

It was in no way "local" transportation. Clean, professional, comfortable, nary a chicken to be seen among the leather seats. Not as interesting, sure, but obviously I've been reading too many rough-it-or-go-home Lonely Planet books, and was still having pangs about the trail. Beneath the dome windows, then, we watched the landscape go by, from farmlands, misted by the morning,

to terraced hills and the snowy Andes mountains, alongside rivers, cows, donkeys, villages,

all to the happy tunes of Peruvian charangos (a very small sort of guitar) and Andean panpipes being er, piped in. There were two songs and after three hours we got to know each note of the panpipes quite, quite well.

At one point the train overhead PA informed the passengers we should prepare for "sick sacks".

Sick sacks?

It turned out the train needed to go down a very steep hill and we went slowly forward on one track, then reversed down another, several times in a zig zag.

We kind of liked the sick sacks. Mike in particular; he went on and on about the simplicity and genius of the solution.

Engineers. Can't live with them, can't manage large machinery without them.

Also along the lines of Lonely Planet, I had yet another of my slightly foolish, vaguely and embarrassingly colonial travel fantasies fulfilled at one of the stations. We were not even fully stopped before locals rushed up to the windows with goods held aloft, trying to entice the passengers to buy before the train set in motion again.

I have always wanted to be on a train and to have that happen.

They fed us, and at some point the panpipes and gentle rocking of the train enticed me into a restful slumber. When I woke again we had left the highlands behind and entered the jungle.

swirling Urubamba River, vines and jungle

Lush, steamy, orchids and the Incan Trail. The Río Urubamba churned alongside, fiercely muddy, the hillsides steep, dense and green.

After the train we were sorted into groups, each with flag carrying guides who herded us onto a bus to take us up switchback after switchback of dusty road. And at the top, Machu Picchu. On so many folks' life bucket lists; we were there.

So why wasn't I more excited?

Seems like everywhere I go, the more I see, the less I know...

love the little guy in his rainbow pants and enormous hat

Up, way up, staring menacingly down over the crowds in the Plaza de Armas, masked demons in rainbow costume perched in the Spanish architecture of the Iglesia La Compañía de Jesús like living gargoyles.

They gestured and swayed and generally looked as frightening as possible. There was no mistaking that. Over a loudspeaker, a story was being read, the Spanish...or was it the Quichua language?...echoing off ancient stones.

 All necks were craned skyward to watch the obviously malevolent spirits as the tale that we, at least, couldn't understand wove around us. When it ended, the last bit of sound booming, then dissolving into nothingness, the masked dancers disappeared all at once.

Eep.

I dumped Mike off to get a massage. The plan was, he'd get work tiredness rubbed out of his muscles and I'd go exploring and take some more photographs.

Answering some primal call drummed up by the evil spirit performance, I went carb hunting, and found candy apples. Excellent! A childlike treat to drive away the creepies, like whistling in the dark.

At least I thought so, carefully counting out close to the correct soles for  the young proprietor. He just as carefully gave me the correct change and I selected an apple. Which was a lot heavier than I had anticipated.

Closer inspection revealed: they were candy apples. As in, apples beneath a thick, jawbreaker-hard encapsulating layer of tooth-achingly sweet hard candy.  Not a smidge of caramel to be seen.

This was street food? Crunch.

Hmm. Messy. I wandered, scattering bright pink bits of hard candy over the ground whenever I risked my dental work with another bite.

Great. I was breaking my teeth, courting adult-onset diabetes and littering.

I watched spinners and weavers of alpaca wool, kids drowning their matchbox cars in a fountain, people standing in line at the employment office, (many with babes on hips), tourists with big cameras, and carefully read both t-shirts and an assortment of pictures and banners decrying the tourism racket -my Spanish may be lousy, but even a gringa like me can understand a sign like this-

the cow is tourism, which the Quechua are holding on a rope,
but the airlines and railroad and hotels and even church
are sucking away the milk that belongs to the Quechua people. 

-huh. Freedom of speech. Guess that's good. At least it wasn't against the tourists...

It seems that Take Your Children to Work Day is every day in Peru, at least when they're small. This guy, for instance, was a boy with some serious 'tude, swinging his mother's wares (sugarcane, in this case) at passers-by

Do you think that's good or bad for business? I'm not sure.

Then there was this dear little man stealing a kiss from his baby sibling while his mother and grandmother sold homemade sweets along the sidewalk :

Kids who were obviously loved and being cared for, but that evening, at a restaurant, it was hard to ignore the sparsely dressed boy child in the cold outside our window. He persistently waggled knitted and very cute finger puppets on his outstretched hands.

It's hard to let go of the thought that children shouldn't work, but while we in the West are enlightened (read: rich) enough for our children enjoy their childhoods to the fullest, with ample nutrition, education, and opportunity, that's not the case everywhere.

Looking out at that boy and the beautiful plaza of light and shadow, I was eating an alpaca steak. Yes, a fuzzy cute alpaca. Add that to my list of  "been there, ate that" -it was very lean and not terribly flavorful, in case you want to know. 

Alpaca, post-cuteness.

I told myself, if you buy something from that child, you communicate that having kids sell things in the cold and dark works and they'll keep doing it.

But the little guy was out there for an hour and didn't sell a single puppet. My heart ached for him. What if he got in trouble for not selling anything? Here I was, cozy warm, having drinks and eating a critter who'd never done any harm to anyone, simply for the novelty of it. Who was I to say that what someone from another culture should do?

So of course I caved, dashed outside, and bought several, (and at a reasonable price) between the dinner and dessert course. I was rewarded with a big, big smile. so I felt good about buying those little puppets, despite twinges to my morals.

Also, I felt better about that than I had about an earlier encounter I'd had with some locals. Two women carrying babies and alpacas were walking in the opposite direction and I'd snapped what I'd hoped was a sly photo.

In the Middle East, the one lousy time I got busted attempting to take a photo, there was a lot of shrieking and running away by the women I'd wanted to photograph. Which scarred me, slightly.

This time it was the opposite. The two women told me to take a photo. Having already gotten a heads-up from the guidebook, I knew they would expect to be paid. Which was fine; if you're going to doll up not only yourself but also your babies and your llama or alpaca so I can get a photo to make a living, all good.

So I asked how much. I didn't fall off a turnip truck, after all, and these were obviously pros. "You decide, you decide!" they insisted, "take a photo, photo, yes!"

And they posed. I made sure my valuables were secure (again, turnip truck: I'd read that if you were going to be a victim of crime in Peru, outside of Lima, Cusco is the most likely place for something to happen) and took a quick, informal photo:

 Very nice, right? I put my camera back into my purse, opened my wallet, pulled out an American dollar aaaaaand...there were four of them in front of me with their hands out.

Wait, what? Quatro? Permisso?

I had a USD $1, a USD $20, and several 20 ($7.50) Peruvian soles bills. I offered the $1 to the ringleader, which resulted in the immediate shaking of heads and pursed lips and chorusing of "no no noooooooo!" The argument that ensued was along the lines of "there are four of us and we have babies, families to feed, yadda yadda., pleeeease, lady."

Yeah, well, darn it, they said I choose and I thought $1 was a perfectly fine amount for a photograph, especially in Peru! I hesitated for the most infinitesimal second, always a mistake. One of the women was within inches of being into my wallet; scoping out the contents she said 20 soles, OK.

20 soles not OK. Getting near my wallet was also not OK. I could buy two alpaca knitted hats for 20 soles! A meal! Possibly two! NOT OK.

I plopped the dollar dismissively into the nearest hand and strode away; having much longer legs and not being weighed down by alpacas or babies helped me out, here.

OK, we both know what I'm really saying is that I ran away. I'm not proud of it, but there it is.

There was a  burst of outrage as they tried to scuttle after me, but I was out of there, me and my lousy photo. The noise and pursuit were extremely short-lived, but I didn't look back. Eeyagh.

I felt like a heel.

We were tired, that night, and glad that we'd found a place away from the partiers and traffic, and went back to our peaceful hotel to sleep as well as one can when awaiting an early wake-up call. We had a train to catch, our very favorite form of travel, and would be leaving before dawn...

Across the ocean blue, me and you, we're dancing in the street

Yes, of course we went there.

By some great bit of good luck we had, inadvertantly but so fortuitously, arrived in Cusco in the month in which, exactly 100 years ago, Hiram Bingham rediscovered the the pride of Peru, the lost city of Machu Picchu. May I assume you know what Machu Picchu is?

Far and away Machu Picchu is the reason nearly 2 million people come each year from all over the world to Cusco. It is the closest city to the ruins, and, I must say, as a cultural gem of a city and the oldest continuously inhabited city in the western hemisphere, a destination in itself. But Machu Picchu is the real draw.
 
So they were throwing a Hundred Years Party.

I had never been to Cusco before, had, embarassingly, never even heard of it until I started planning our trip. Cusco was the capital of the Incan World, known to them as the naval of the Earth. I'll tell you more about that later, for now, I think it may be safe to say that the Hundred Years party was not terribly unlike a hundred year flood. What. a. sight.

Many of the streets were blocked off from cars, swelling instead with dancers and musicians and more dancers and people, ever so many people.

The costumes were elaborate and bright, masked performers telling through dance stories that we didn't know but with which the crowd was obviously familiar. Some gruesome or grotesquely sinister, others beautiful. I wished we had someone to explain it all to us.

I was quietly stroking out at the photo ops...everywhere I looked there was color swirling, the sights and smells and sounds, and all of it new and exciting. In fact, I'm going to stop writing and let you enjoy the photos without any more commentary from the likes of me. Do enjoy.

We did.

Looking at the world over the rim of his teacup...

We'd pared our belongings down to hiking clothes, sturdy shoes, a few toiletries, camera, and the all-important bug repellent. The rest stayed with Royce and April. Traveling even lighter? Yes, please!

Now, with just our backpacks and passports, we headed out into a morning of wet streets with bits of garbage blowing around. Apparently it is par for the course to have to hail several taxis until you can find one willing to take you to your destination. We found this surprising, since we were going to the airport. What kind of taxis won't take a nice fare to the airport? Apparently they have zone licensing issues.

While waiting for our flight, we introduced ourselves to the somewhat grassy, slightly bitter Coca tea, as per my doctor's instructions. The instructions were important because otherwise we might have hesitated to drink it. Coca tea is made from the leaves of the Coca plant -as in, cocaine.

No, really.

But, as it turns out, while you might not pass a drug test 48 hours after ingesting the tea, (hmm, might as well have a poppy seed muffin while you're at it and flunk the initial opiates screen as well,) the leaf itself has very, very minimal amounts of the alkaloid used to make cocaine. It's neither narcotic nor addictive, and, most importantly, is thought to be effective in preventing altitude sickness.

Count me in.

We were hydrating and drinking the Coca tea to prepare for a change in altitude, from sea level in Lima down to southwest Peru and the city of Cusco at 10,800 feet. Having gotten a taste of altitude sickness already, I wasn't interested in trying it on again. What my doctor had said was to drink a minimum of 100 ounces of water a day and to try out the Coca tea as well. 100 ounces, it turns out, is a lot of water to drink, and we had chosen to stick with bottled, what with it being South America and all.

Many plastic bottles.

Bottled water has yet to steer me wrong: I even brush my teeth with it when we're travelling in areas where it's recommended. You also have to be careful of the refilled bottled water scam, where the bottle has been refilled with tap water and the seller "politely" opens it for you...to disguise that it was never sealed in the first place. If it's shady, I would advise you to just go thirsty, as lousy as that is...or really regret it later.

We demonstrated what really great world travelers we are by getting into the wrong line for our plane. It took a lot of Spanish and hand gesturing for us to get it, but eventually we boarded the correct plane (from the tarmac -I love that!) and were soon soaring over the staggeringly beautiful Andes

and thinking about that movie, Alive, with Ethan Hawke. You remember? Based on a true story from 1972, a rugby team's plane crashes into the Andes. The survivors end up having to eat some of the deceased to have the energy to hike out of there and get help for the others.

I cannot imagine. I mean, I snarfed down that cuy, but eating cold dead person...I'm not claiming I wouldn't, but I'd have to be awfully hungry, is all I'm saying. But it was a good movie, survival and human perseverance and the like. Looking down on those peaks, I was glad we were flying, not walking.

Our plane was much better behaved, thank you, and within a scant hour we were circling to land.

In the airport I managed to inadvertently attack another passenger with my once-again pressurized hand sanitizer, which shot out an impressive amount all over her sleeve. She yelped, I apologised. In Spanish and English. No idea if she spoke either language.

There were dancers and musicians, throwing on their costumes, then rushing out to welcome us in a whirl of sound and color. Even better was the nice fellow from our hotel holding up a sign with (inevitably misspelled but very welcome) our name written in block letters. Man, I really love that.

It makes me feel special. Welcome. And, most importantly, not lost.

Outside of the airport, we took in deep breaths of the air of Cusco, the ancient capitol of the Incan world.  It smelled like dust and exhaust and yet much...cleaner than that of Lima. Also thinner.

We plopped ourselves into a nondescript, less than luxury model of a car as indicated by our friend the sign holder who drove us past the policia with their machine guns and riot shields stationed at the entrance to the airport parking lot. They seemed bored; more interested in texting and smoking than in us.

We were staying more to the edge of Cusco, that great, once-walled city, at a place that was #1 on Tripadvisor.com. We put a lot of faith into those ratings, as they have yet to lead us astray. This place was desribed as clean, laid back, beyond-expectations helpful, and most importantly, quiet.

Also, they had the corniest website I have ever seen in my entire life, with photos of each of their staff, each captioned with sayings like Mario: "Obviously I am the best!" and Arturo: "I am what I am, I know everything and I am prepared to help you." If reserving a hotel room makes me laugh, they get points from me.

We were given the most thorough greeting and informational session I have ever had, after which we dumped our gear in the slightly frilly, but not too froufy room while admiring the security measures in place out our window...embedded broken glass and electric fences. South America, don't forget.

Starving and eager to see where we had landed, we were dropped off in front of Gato's Market on the Plaza de Armas, the historical center of the city...and -who knew?- one heck of a party.

A bit headachy, ready for more tea, we set out over cobblestones beneath streaming rainbow banners.