Saturday September 7, 2019

In the Sacred Valley, Peru

1Kings 19:1-18

v. 11b-12  Then a great and powerful wind tore the mountains apart and shattered the rocks before the Lord, but the Lord was not in the wind. After the wind there was an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake.  After the earthquake came a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire. And after the fire came a gentle whisper.  We started hiking at Amaru.  It was about a mile up to the 14,200-foot pass.  It was very slow going and incredibly hard to breathe (though not all the others seemed to find it so) through the spectacular scenery of the mountains all around us.  But the Lord was not in the mountains.  The alpacas were fluffy and shy, grazing on surprisingly abundant growth, but the Lord was not in the alpacas.  Much of the way was rocky with little slippery stones, bigger ankle-twisters and lines of boulders here and there.  But the Lord was not in the rocks.  As I walked through the empty potato field just before our lunch stop there came “a gentle whisper.”  “My Spirit is within those who trust me,” reminded the Lord, “so I am with you wherever you go.”  The day’s majestic mountains, skittish alpacas, too many red rocks, the thin air and the smiles of the Quechua people—my Lord was already there with me in these things, showing me wonder and strengthening me with himself so “the journey [would not be] too great” for me (v. 7).  Thank you, Lord Jesus, for the reminder of your presence in this adventure.

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All ten in our group wanted to do today’s hike so up and up our two vans chugged on ever rougher roads, snaking past tiny settlements above the treeline, slowing down twice for little flocks of sheep ambling along the road. 

“I’ve jumped out of airplanes lower than this,” said Maurice.  At 13,150 feet we stopped on a broad slope near a church a bit frayed at the seams. 

I slipped in for a quick look.  It was the Nativity of the Virgin, and I chatted in my nonexistent Spanish with a local family decorating the sanctuary.

Juan had told us today’s hike would be accompanied by a couple donkeys, one carrying extra water, first aid supplies and oxygen, and the other for transport in case someone couldn’t manage the walk.  I was surprised; none of the information from REI mentioned emergency donkeys (probably because they don’t want you to sign up for the trip unprepared thinking you can easily drape yourself over a donkey and inhale pure oxygen whenever you want).  But there they were, walking down the hill to meet us—three donkeys, not two, with their owner and her daughter.  The donkeys must have had names but we didn’t know them; Monica soon dubbed them Uber, Lyft and Nine One One.

Up we started.  “We’ll take it really slow,” Juan had said several times.  It was a gentle slope, beginning on friendly green grass, and we had our hiking poles—so why was this so hard?  Ah, yes—there’s not a lot of air up here.  We walked and rested, walked and rested, and the rest stops gave us time to look back at the magnificent mountains, and over at the alpacas, and contemplate the rich brown earth of the potato fields, the only crop that grows this high. 

We also looked more carefully at the donkey lady behind us.  What was she doing?  Did she have a rope for the donkeys?  A yo-yo?  No.  She was spinning—spinning wool into yarn!  Walking behind us in her skirt and sandals—behind the wimpy North Americans moving at snail’s pace in their latest REI gear, leaning on their poles and gasping for air—the donkey lady, who had already walked over the pass once this morning, was drawing wool from the blanket tied around her shoulders, dangling her spindle and getting some work done.

We walked for about an hour and twenty minutes to Challwacasa, the pass at 14,200 feet.  Nobody needed oxygen or a donkey.  We took off our packs and reveled in the 360-degree panorama.  Even from the “ladies’ room,” just down the hill on one side, the view was exquisite from every clump of grass.

The descent was easier on the lungs, the rocky ground was trickier on the feet and the vistas were no less beautiful.  The pond we saw from on high turned out to be a water source for the valley, held back by a dam we walked across. 

In an hour and a half we reached the tiny village of Viacha where an al fresco lunch was waiting for us.

There was even a little building with a flush toilet and a sink with soap and paper towels (oh, the luxuries of organized group travel!).  I sampled the local beverage Inka Cola, one of the drink options.  Tastes like bubble gum!  After we ate, two Quechua men in a nearby potato field showed us how they plant potatoes—one of their village’s 230 varieties—with a digging stick, fertilizing each tuber with dried alpaca pellets.

We continued our gorgeous descent.  As we passed small settlements, potato fields, alpacas and stands of eucalyptus trees (flourishing but invasive here too), the intriguing markings on one of the smaller hills below us came into focus as the ruins of an Inca town and terraces.  As we stopped for a few minutes, two little girls appeared selling woven bracelets.  Monica bought one for each of us ladies.

We had to negotiate a steep path made up mostly of boulders before we got to Pisaq, the Inca town we had been approaching. 

Our vans were waiting, but we had the option to walk through the town first, so I joined that group.  Did I mention that the town spilled down the steep hillside of its strategic mountaintop location?  So up we climbed again, the fit young(er) hikers scampering up like mountain goats and me lagging behind unable to take in enough air.  We saw the remains of houses and got the same views from the top as the Incan rulers had as they made sure their slaves were working hard on the terraces below.  On the ascent through Pisaq we paused at a nondescript location.  “Give me your camera,” Saul instructed.  I complied.  He zoomed out the lens, scanned the cliff opposite and took a picture.  “Look at this,” he said, zooming in on the screen.  There were openings in the cliff, with white spots visible in some of them.  Skulls!  To keep animals away, the Incas buried their dead in fetal position in the sides of cliffs, sealing up the holes.  When the Spanish came, they eventually dug up graves as they pushed into every corner of the Incan empire looking for gold (which the Incas did not use much in burials).  Many untouched graves were later looted in the 1940s and 50s when there was no functioning Peruvian government.

Juan is willing to share with us what he really thinks, the real truth about Peru—things like, that the only people who celebrate Columbus Day are politicians, and how the Spanish invaders destroyed native genetic diversity.  Tonight at our meeting he told us about coca leaves:  It’s been scientifically demonstrated that, contrary to popular belief, coca doesn’t do a thing to help with altitude sickness.  The maka it contains is a stimulant and an anesthetic.  Chewing the leaves numbs the mouth and stomach so the person doesn’t feel hungry and can work in the fields all day.  Coca usage is also just cultural.  But 50% of coca production currently goes to drug dealers to make cocaine.  All the jungle countries now deal in cocaine, and it will never be controlled because politicians are in the business.

The hotel toilet paper situation is becoming…more unpleasant.  As nice as this lodge is, what with chocolates on the pillow and a jacuzzi and llamas in the garden, you’d think they’d have the trash can by the toilet all dust ruffled and perfumed.  Sadly, no.  This trash can doesn’t have a swing-top lid like the ones in the previous hotels.  In fact, it doesn’t have a lid at all.  (What is this—an airport bathroom?)  I still had part of the Carroll County Times in my bag, so I tore off the front page and folded it to fit over the trash can.  It’s not a swing top but at least I don’t have to look at the contents.

Friday September 6, 2019

Cusco to Chinchero to Urquillos to Lamay, Peru

1 Kings 18 

v. 38  Then the fire of the Lord fell and burned up the sacrifice, the wood, the stones and the soil, and also licked up the water in the trench.  Amazing things have happened on mountains.  On Mount Carmel the Lord showed himself to be the true God when he sent fire to Elijah’s sacrifice, leaving the prophets of Baal shouting in vain.  On the Andes, today between Chinchero and Urquillos, the fire was in my lungs, burning up what little air I could suck in.  It was a break-in mostly downhill hike, and I’m not at all sure how much uphill I will be able to do on the real hike at even higher altitude tomorrow.  But the Lord does amazing things, which is why the people watching the spectacle on Mount Carmel cried out, “The Lord—he is God!  The Lord—he is God!”  I declare that truth with them, and beg him to send the Breath of Heaven to fill my lungs and the lungs of all of our little group of adventurers!

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At breakfast I crushed coca leaves and put them in my hot chocolate.  Maybe the coca really will help with the altitude.  We were out at eight, hopping into the second van with our assistant guide Saul.  He pointed out ladies selling breakfast at sidewalk stands—quinoa porridge, papaya juice, and cheese or avocado sandwiches. 

We asked Saul about all the half-finished buildings.  People just want to be able to build a good foundation, Saul said.  When and if they have more money they will build more.  They might even leave it to their children to construct the next floor.

In the tiny village of Chinchero we went to a weaving demonstration in the yard of one of the local families, set up to accommodate visitors.  Three ladies were in traditional dress, but I don’t think that was just for us because I saw other ladies around the village who looked similar.  One of our ladies was spinning wool, one was weaving on a lap-held loom, and the other explained things to us in English, passing around baskets of lambswool, alpaca wool, and baby alpaca wool (aaah!). 

She showed us how to wash the wool, and passed around bowls of natural flowers and leaves that made different colored dyes, all rich and earthy, describing how long various colors had to soak.  An intriguing dye was made from dried cochinilla, a parasitic insect that lives on cactus leaves; our wool worker crushed it to show its rich purple color, then squeezed lime juice over the purple to make flaming orange.  Of course our Peruvian ladies had a whole display of beautiful, authentic, intricately woven textiles that we could buy if we wanted.  Hmmm.  I bought a winter alpaca hat and a baby alpaca shawl—a special deal if I bought both!

Our next stop in Chinchero was a church built by the Spanish when they knocked down the Inca building they didn’t like on that site.  The church had a lovely painted wood ceiling and all sorts of wonders but of course no pictures were allowed.

Maurice went off with our guide Saul’s cultural group for the rest of the day.  They visited the Maras salt production site, a mountainside carved into hundreds of ponds for the evaporation of salt from a salty stream flowing constantly out of the mountain. 

After lunch Maurice’s group explored the stunning and somewhat mysterious Moray site, where the reason for the beautiful curving and concentric terraces is unknown.

During their hundred-year empire the Incas built 50,000 miles of trails, with four main ones starting from Cusco.  The group I was with for the day, led by Juan, was following one of the trails, starting at about 3500 meters (11,500 feet), down to a valley—a break-in hike.  Our descent began along Inca terraces. 

Down into woodlands we wound, along a stream, past fields crammed in between steep mountainsides, needing to watch our footing but stopping occasionally to look at the soaring green walls ahead.  After an hour we paused to remove some layers where the trail came into the open, facing a high mountain ridge. 

“Are you guys adventurous?” Juan asked.  “That’s why we came,” said Monica from Vermont.  “I’m going to take you to see a beautiful waterfall,” Juan told us.  We continued down the slope and soon turned right onto a steeper trail downward. 

“You’re not scared of narrow places, are you?” Juan asked—meaning a narrow path where one side is straight down.  Who, us?  Down and down we went, leaning on our poles, the sound of rushing water growing louder until, rounding a bend, there was Pocpoc Falls tumbling down in two ribbons from the mountainside high above. 

Great side trip!—except then we had to go back up.  Just when I couldn’t get any more oxygen into my lungs, Juan turned again and we were back on the trail and heading down to the valley floor.  Stands of wild geraniums punctuated the wild growth along the Urquillos River.  We crossed little rias that spilled over into clearings.  

A eucalyptus forest around a grassy bank of the river provided our lunch spot. 

After an hour Juan got us moving again, uphill a little to a narrow track along a channelized irrigation canal. 

I had thought we were near the bottom of the valley but suddenly glimpses through the jungle to our right gave views to the cultivated valley floor far below.  “It’s corn for Europe,” Juan told us. 

We had a few more ups and downs with the final downhill slope especially hard on my knees.  Then we turned into the dusty red town of Urquillos. 

Juan gave his uneaten lunch sandwich to a little boy hanging out with his mama and the family chickens. 

The REI van appeared.  We bounced along the road in the Sacred Vally to Lamay Lodge, our home for the next two nights, where the back door of each room opens onto the garden with the giant fire pit, jacuzzi and llamas. 

Shower, laundry, tea time, pisco sour demonstration and tasting with Juan, and a fine dinner, and we were all well done for the night.

Thursday September 5, 2019

Cusco, Peru

Deuteronomy 33 

v. 27, 29  “The eternal God is your refuge, and underneath are the everlasting arms….Blessed are you, Israel!  Who is like you, a people saved by the Lord?  He is your shield and helper and your glorious sword.  Your enemies will cower before you, and you will tread on their heights.”  It’s the final verses of Moses’ blessing of the Israelites that strike me.  God spoke verse 27 to me once before, when I was terrified as a glider on a winch shot up into the sky with me in it.  Now he faithfully speaks it to us, part of the new Israel, as we go up into the high Andes:  “The eternal God is your refuge, and underneath are the everlasting arms.”  Blessed are we indeed!  Who is like us, sinners by our own choice who have become “a people saved by the Lord?”  Holy God, may we tread on the heights this next week secure with you.  Be our shield against danger and our helper when muscles weaken.  Holy Spirit, please fill our lungs with your breath.

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We finished drying our laundry by laying it on the plug-in heater, repacked and were out by ten in a taxi to our next hotel, the nicer (read “more expensive”) one that came with our REI adventure.  The room is fine, if with a somewhat odd bathroom arrangement, but aside from the basket with three pieces of fruit, it isn’t appreciably better than the one we left.  The public areas are lovely, though, including a comfortable patio filled with chairs and tables for daytime and firepits and blankets to tame the night air. 

But there was not much time to indulge in amenities.  After a quick lunch we met our group:  Monica from Vermont who, in spite of her fitness and energy, had already suffered through such severe altitude sickness that a doctor had to be called (she was fine now); Adrienne from Arizona; the sisters Kim and Cheryl from Western states; Gil from San Francisco and his college senior daughter Eleanor; Tony and Mary from Boston; us; and Juan, our experienced and extremely knowledgeable Peruvian guide.  Our quiet group hopped into the van for our introductory outing, through crazy traffic, past all Cusco’s half-built structures sprouting tall rebar bouquets with flowers of overturned plastic jugs.

Our first stop was at an aqueduct built by the Wari people almost a thousand years ago for a city that was never finished.  A few hundred years later the Incas repurposed the site to control access to the valley.  The Inca stone blocks stand out from the rougher masonry of the Wari.  Though the Incas rough-cut their stones at the quarry, amazingly they set them by trial and error:  dropping a stone into place, lifting it again to file it down where needed, then dropping it again, as many times as needed.  When the position was right, the protrusions that had been used for lifting were filed off (unless they hadn’t gotten around to that part—some are still visible).

The unfinished Wari city, its original name unknown, was disparagingly called Pikillaqta (“flea town”) hundreds of years after its abandonment.  Crossed by straight streets and surrounded by a high red stone wall, Pikillaqta was supposed to be a city for about 10,000 but only its builders lived in the adobe houses.

Our final visit was to Tipon, guinea pig capital of the world.  “Don’t bring one home for the kids,” texted Eric when we told him where we were.  Not a problem.  It’s the guinea pig capital because they eat them here.  Restaurant after restaurant lined the main drag, welcoming customers in with signs of smiling guinea pigs apparently not knowing what you’re here for. 

But we had come to see Cancha Inca, the broad agricultural terraces the Incas built, each with a microclimate temperature one to two degrees different from the next, to develop crops for the empire.  The ground in each terrace had been built up in three different layers to absorb rainwater and prevent flooding.  Controlled water channels for irrigation were fed by mountain springs.  A few simple houses for workers were perched at the top of the site, which a sign said was at 3400 meters.  That’s 11,154 feet, about the same as Cusco.  After the climb we were still breathing, if gasping.

Back at the hotel Juan gave us a detailed briefing on the next day’s two options.  He talked about altitude sickness, encouraging us to drink two liters of water per day (right!) and mentioning two symptions I hadn’t heard of—a metallic taste in your mouth and tingly fingers.    We had a fine dinner.  My itching continues to subside and I have no new bites.  I’ve quit the heavy-duty oral meds and just use the cream now.  Surely this high-class hotel will let us flush our TP, I thought, until I saw the admonitory sign, right in front of my face at eye level when I used the facility.  As we went to bed at a reasonable hour to be rested for the next day’s first real hike, my fingers were tingling.