by Neil Harris
The mist rolled up
the wall of the Urubamba valley, then across the magical site of Macchu Picchu,
encasing the Inca stonework in a mystical shroud. The view from the summit of
Wayne Picchu, a near vertical 700ft rock overlooking the ruins, that appears in
almost all photos of Macchu Picchu. The lung bursting climb, its peak is at
around 9000ft, was worth every drop of sweat and aching muscles. I sat atop
Wayne Picchu, along with about twenty other tourists, most of them draped
across the bare rocks that constituted the viewing point. I hoped to get the
definitive photograph; I failed, of course.
The majesty of Macchu
Picchu is as much in the scenery surrounding the site; it nestles on a hill in
a loop in the Urubamba river, as in the ruins themselves, although these are
impressive. A common myth about Inca masonry is that each stone is meticulously
crafted to fit next to its neighbour. In the main religious buildings this is
true; however, in the more mundane living quarters the fit is less than
perfect, but considering the Incas shaped the stone without metallic tools, and
moved them without either wheeled or horse transport, this is being rather
petty.
My trip to South
America (I flew to Lima via Houston) was to last for just over two weeks. After
a few days in Lima, we flew to Puerto Maldonado, via Cuzco. A frontier town
situated just east of the Andes, but within the Amazon basin, it was the
staging post for a three hour journey up river to a lodge in the rain forest.
Two days were ample time to trek along `jungle' paths and sample the flora and
fauna. While the flora is abundant, the fauna is vociferous but elusive. My
favourites were the walking palm - it migrates by throwing out roots towards
the best sunlight, then gradually pulls itself in that direction - and the leaf
cutter ants, each carrying a piece of leaf, then walking in a line, like a
string yachts with green spinnakers set.
Half an hour by jet
took us back to Cuzco, the seat of Inca power before the Conquistadors arrived
in 1542. In a list of all time bastards, Pizzaro would feature near the top.
Amazingly, there is a large statue of him in Lima: it was a gift from Franco in
the late thirties. This landmark must really rankle with the indigenous population
of Peru, who are the majority.
Cuzco sits in a bowl
amongst hills high in the Andes. Its altitude of 12000ft is a shock to the
system, the lungs only getting 60% of their usual oxygen supply. Add to this an
excess of diesel fumes trapped in the city's basin, and a raging headache and
cough soon follow. There are numerous Inca sites near Cuzco, Sacsayhuaman,
pronounced conveniently sexywoman, being the largest, notable for huge stones,
up to 160 tons, incorporated in it's construction.
From Cuzco there's a
tourist train to Agua Calientes, literally hot springs, the stop for Macchu
Picchu. A narrow gauge railway, it ascends out of Cuzco by a series of
switchbacks that are totally disorientating. Much of the journey is along the
Urubamba valley, a descent from the highest point of over 4000ft in the space
of about 2 hours. Agua Calientes has the feel of a Wild West frontier town, the
railway runs down the high street, open air restaurants either side serving
pleasant fare, while itinerant hawkers try their luck selling trinkets and
cotton teashirts proclaiming, in Spanish, `Coca leaves are not a drug'. A steep
climb out of town and the relaxing baths of naturally heated water are
available for a small fee. Its most appealing feature is the total lack of motorised
vehicles, the buses that ply the short route to Macchu Picchu are barred from
entry. About three days after our return to Cuzco a landslide shut the railway,
as there is no road, the only means of reaching Macchu Picchu was by helicopter
at a cost of $80 one way.
A day long journey,
taking in the 14000ft La Raya pass, by minibus, got us to Puno, a large town on
the southern shore of Lake Titicaca. Puno proved to be another badly polluted
Andean town, but not as ugly as Juliaca, a town that we'd stopped in for our
lunch, a refuse tip containing half completed houses and more litter than
Oxford Street.
The following morning
saw us on a boat taking the three hour trip across the lake to Tequille Island.
The sky darkened, promising a heavy shower, as we docked astride the obligatory
floating island, home to a group of Uros Indians. I was not impressed. Very
touristy, the reed houses had solar cell lighting, while most of the woman
squatted behind cloths laden with home-made trinkets, embroidered clothes and reed
model boats, all, of course, for sale. The give in the reed deck of the island
took a little getting used to; the swaying motion added a drunken gait to my
walk, and did nothing for my altitude induced headache.
If, Star Trek style,
I was beamed down onto Tequille island and asked to guess where I was, I would
immediately say `A Greek island'. The azure blue lake, combined with the
terraced slopes, belied it's Andean location at around 12000ft. After lunch we
strolled around part of the island in equatorial sunlight, its tranquillity a
pleasure, while its inhabitants (it was Sunday) were dressed in their most
colourful clothes. Our sauntering was interrupted by the occasional local,
always a man wearing a brightly coloured pointed woolly hat, walking purposefully
along the track whilst knitting furiously. The evening was punctuated by
lightning, then thunder, highlighting Lake Titicaca in staccato flashes. My
headache had returned, so an early night beckoned.
The following day a
three hour boat ride in glorious sunshine took us back to the polluted bowl
containing Puno, and a chance to wander around the large street market that
serves the town. All manner of wares were for sale, but seemingly ancient
women, bent by age, bowler hatted, and of impressive girth, were the main
attraction for me, but proved unwilling subjects when I dared to point my
camera in their direction.
The next morning saw
us at the Bolivian border, the formalities were soon over. Our guide, a
Peruvian from Cusco, was visibly nervous, his passport showed that he crossed
this barrier very regularly. He felt that one day he may be accused of illegal
cross-border activities. His faith in the integrity of Bolivian border guards
was close to zero.
After a short drive
we were entering the Bolivian pre-Inca site of Tiahuanaco. On a rough hewn
pitch on the outskirts a football game was progress, the players were bowler
hatted woman of all shapes and sizes. Another photo opportunity missed! Much of
Tiahuanaco consists of reconstructed ruins, built from downed masonry. The
`Puerta del Sol' the archaeological highlight, but a statue of a bearded man,
dated to the 2nd century AD, caught my eye. The local indigenous people can not
grow facial hair; this begs the question as to where the bearded man came from.
The approach to La
Paz is through the dormitory town of El Alto, an unplanned satellite that has
grown up around La Paz airport since the early seventies. Its altitude of 4058m
makes it the highest conurbation of its size (about 700,000) in the world. A
stunning view of Bolivia's capital hits the motorist as the semi-circular road
descends towards La Paz. The city sits in a massive mountain edged bowl, snow
capping the highest peaks. I instantly knew I'd like La Paz, an opinion I would
not change with familiarity.
A morning's guided
tour gave a good overview of the city, taking us from the Witches market, where
dried llama foetuses were on offer, through the produce market and its mind
boggling selection of potatoes, via museums and sundry churches, to the Plaza
Murillo containing the cathedral and National Congress. The wealth of a country
seems to be inversely proportional to the number of boot boys frequenting its
capital city. Many of these boot boys wore balaclava hats, not, as I suspected,
a sign of gangland intimidation, but because they don't want their girlfriends
to discover their lowly occupation. I spent an enjoyable afternoon wandering
the streets of La Paz ending up in the Museum of Archaeology, just in time to
shelter from a heavy thunderstorm. To my surprise there was a Nasca pot, dating
from about 500AD, that portrayed a gentleman of distinctly oriental features,
the possessor of both sideburns and a moustache. Could the Chinese have sailed
to Peru 1500 years ago?
We ate dinner in a
restaurant atop the President Hotel, the view to the snow covered slopes of
Mount Illimani in the slow dusk, followed by La Paz `all lit up', sealed my
decision to return to the Bolivian capital.
An early start the
next day saw us heading to Copacabana, a town of pilgrimage to Bolivian
Catholics, and the town that the famous beach was named after. Sitting by Lake
Titicaca, its main attraction was the Cathedral and the statue of the `Virgin
of the Lake'. Handily this rotated so it could be facing either the main nave,
or the upstairs chapel rented out for private ceremonies. The border safely
negotiated and we were back in the diesel fug of Puno.
A morning flight from
Juliaca to Lima and the holiday was almost over, except for a final look around
the Peruvian capital. The buckets of air available, after the high altiplano,
made me feel supercharged. I visited the Museum of the Inquisition, this proved
an unexpected highlight. I was furnished with my own English speaking guide who
gave me a 30 minute tour around the building, describing the practices of the
250 year Inquisition. Not quite like the Monty Python portrayal, but still
feared and hated by the locals who were very glad to see its ending at
Independence. The guide refused a tip, and as no fee was requested, this has to
be Lima's best bargain.
First published in VISA issue 34 (autumn 1999).
First published in VISA issue 34 (autumn 1999).
