Day 18: Cuzco and the Sacred Valley

I would apologize for the delay in posting, but I am still feeling a little queasy from the bus ride to Abancay, and thus not feeling particularly apologetic. The map of the road from Cuzco to Abancay bears an uncanny resemblance to my small intestine. My trying to read and write at the same time was not helpful to my well-being. Beautiful ride, of course, but not quite as nice as the Sacred Valley.



After a few days in Cuzco, wandering around and getting spooked by Incan ruins (more on that later), I decided to put my limited camping/hiking gear to use. Plotted out a little route north of the Urubamba River, which runs down the middle of the Sacred Valley. I planned to do three days of hiking and camping; in reality it turned out to be less than twenty-four hours. The combination of altitude sickness and freezing cold did me in, although the rest of the trip was interesting and exciting.



Jumping back to Cuzco, I spent most of my days wandering the city and sampling delicious food. I tried my best to avoid the touristy areas as part of further self-denial. The street food, I must say, was by far my favorite part of the city. Almost every corner has hot juice vendors. That's right, hot juice. Like hot apple cider, but better. Two kinds of hot juice: quinoa and maca. Quinoa is a basic juice for Soutern Peru, grown from the quinoa plant, which basically looks like fat pink wheat. Quinoa juice is very filling and tastes like something between apple juice and oatmeal. Maca is some sort of grain or root (the mystery makes it all the more delicious), which is mixed with milk and sugar to make a caramel-like juice, thick and syrupy. There is nothing better than a nice big glass of hot juice on a cold morning. Cuzco is also home to my current favorite meal: eggs, rice, fries, and a side salad of tomatoes, onions, and cucumbers (all piled into one incredible bowl, and with optional fried chicken, sausage, or fried banana). There are 10-15 vendors who sell this great meal in the back of the central market. Breakfast, lunch, or dinner, it serves all purposes.



After one day of wanderings and great digestibles, I decided I would visit Saqsayhuman at night. These are huge ruins on a hill overlooking Cuzco, which apparently are shaped like a puma's head (the city is the body). I walked the long streets and long steps up the hill, the sun long since gone below the horizon. Wind blows gently through the trees. Not a soul moves through the ruins. Long wall of giant boulders, cut to fit into each other, tall stone towers, winding stairways through and around the stones. If there was a time to believe in ghosts, it was there. High above the city, I lay on my back to stare up at the stars, ancient ruins at my feet. Spooky but beautiful, like Morticia Adams. I practically ran down the hill and stumbled back into a big drunk party outside a church. Odd transition, from silent ruins to drunk church party. Very Peruvian though, if I am yet permitted to say so.



My Sacred Valley Journey began early Monday morning on two bumpy bus trips to Ollantaytambo. I quickly got my bearings and headed north, along the Patachancha River. The first few hours were mostly flat alongside the river. I met an adobe brick maker and his family, and we exchanged food stuffs (granola mix for coca leaves). The family only spoke Quechua. I am fairly certain the older neighbor lady had a crush on me, although I couldn't understand anything she was saying. Sometimes you just know.



I continued uphill now, which caused me great difficulty because of the altitude. A few minutes hiking slowly, a few minutes resting on the ground. This area was more populated that I had imagined, and I soon stumbled upon a little village (five or six houses) of sheep herders. I was invited to a late lunch of boiled potatoes and a fried egg, and so I shared more of my granola and water. The man, a year younger than me, spoke Spanish (the rest of the family just Quechua) and so we were able to converse. We talked some politics, and I found out that the electricity wires which I had wondered about had only been there for two years.



Continued on until sunset, and found a nice little spot between some bushes to lay my campsite (hammock as ground cover, light sleeping bag on top of that). The campsite was also far enough away from the nearby houses that I figured the guard dogs, who guard the sheep against coyotes, wouldn't bother me. Lay down on my back, stared up as the stars appeared, breathing lightly and relaxing, wondering about the universe, and HOLY SHIT THERE IS SOMEONE STANDING BEHIND ME! I sat up quick and turned around. The guy had a baseball cap and a goofy smile. "Give me the money," he said.



Just kidding. He asked me where I was going and told me to watch out for the dogs, and not to keep food near me. He told me to stop by his house in the morning for breakfast. Bautista was his name (the only one of the people that day whose name I remember, apologies to the rest). I was a little spooked by all the dogs barking loudly nearby, but I was able to drift off to sleep.



Woke up a few hours later in a horrible state. Pounding sinus headache, feverish, felt like puking. None of the symptoms were terrible by themselves, but put together caused a great deal of anguish. Not to mention the freezing cold and the spectre of circling attack dogs. Tried for a while to relax, self-medicate, but I had not brought the two things which could help me: aspirin and coca leaves. The moon shone brightly above, giving the world an eery green light.

Dear Gabe,

This is what you wanted, no? To be all alone in a foreign place, to be in control of your destiny, to face risk with poor planning? Well, here it is. It is cold. Your head hurts, your feet are swelling, your back pains at every turn and bend. The dogs are coming closer. This is the paradise you requested. You are welcome.

Sincerely,

Gabe

It was driving me stir-crazy trying to lie there and figure out how to relax myself enough to sleep until morning. I decided to pack up camp and hike down to a lower altitude in the hopes that my illness would lighten up. Threw everything into my pack, pack on my back. Flashlight (courtesy of the Skirvin family) in my left hand, apple in my left hand. I made my way, stumbling to the best of my abilities, trying to avoid houses where Peruvian Attack Dogs (PADs, for short) might be waiting. It was a mess of rocks, rough sheep trails, animal dookie, and my two feet. Walking felt good. Moving felt good, warming me up, keeping my mind off the headache and fever and body pains. The only problem was (Keep reading at risk to your sensibilities) that the inside of my right thigh and corresponsing testicle area was extremely sore and rashy, pain with each right step.

Just kept walking, not tired enough to need to stop, wanting to get somewhere. As I got back to the original flat road by the river, I felt much better. Back and feet still sore, but headache, fever, stomach sickness, all went away. It was a beautiful night. Waxing gibbous moon, thousands of stars, all illuminating the sheer mountains on both sides of the valley, sound of rushing water off to my right through the bushes and trees. Little animals and birds scurrying around in the brush. One foot after the other. Passed by the field of adobe bricks, rough in the moonlight. Closer to Ollantaytambo I had more run-ins with PADs. Used my flashlight LAPD-style, shining to right in their faces, which worked with all except one big German shepherd fella who followed me for a while and got too close for comfort. Thought about throwing some rocks, while is a local custom, but PETA might revoke my membership.

It might have easily been expected that my night would have ended when I stumbled, bleary-eyed, into Ollantaytambo's main square. Except that none of the hostels or hotels answered their doors at...well, at whatever time it was. Sat down on the benches near a late-night party on one side of the square, salsa band playing for the benefit of a hundred or so locals, mostly drunk. The party had one element which attracted me: a big, warm bonfire (local bonfire uses several big chunks of tree around a bunch of smaller branches so that you can sit on the big chunks to get warmer). I tried to stay out of the drunk party action, but inevitably several drunk guys came over to talk to me, in that boundary-crossing, repeat-question-asking way that drunk men have. I sampled some of the party fare -- beef soup and punché (more hot fruit juice).

Drama: There was a crazy lady at this party. She was dancing all over the place and running from side to side, and up into the bleachers that were set up there. She had what my advanced and culturally sensitive Seneca experience has taught me to call "crazy eyes" -- eyes that cannot stay focused on one thing for more than a second, eyes that seem to bulge out of the socket, eyes that mirror the disorganization inside the mind. She had a blanket wrapped around her back in the indigenous style used to carry personal items or children. Hers contained a child, a child who started crying, at which point she seemed to remember that the child was even there, and rushed to warm the baby up by the bonfire. She asked a woman to hold the child and went to wash herself in the gutter water. More running around. Whenever she came nearby, the woman asked to give the baby back. This went on for around thirty minutes. The woman walked off with the baby and then refused to give it back. The crazy lady started screaming and pulling on her skirt, then went to gutter wash again. I did not see where the lady took the baby. The crazy lady seemed to forget about the incident after a little while, and eventually dissapeared into the night.

Took the first bus back to Cuzco at 5am and trekked back to the hostel, took a much needed shower, and then fell into the sweetest nap...on an actual bed, pillows, blankets and all. Watched The Case of Benjamin Button dubbed in Spanish with some of the hostel Israelis, then fell asleep again, woke up and went to the bus for Abancay. Abancay is not much of a town, but it helps split up the 24 hour trip from Cuzco to Lima, a trip whose length exceeds my maximum possible bus time. Tomorrow we will push those limits with a 10-12 hour trip down to Ica. And yes, that was the royal "we".