Staring up at the mountain in front of me, so high that it strains my neck to see the top. Hundreds of years filled with the Andean culture of the Incas. Four days of hiking the Incan Trail is ahead, the ultimate goal of Machu Picchu. Sweat pouring, legs aching, and the hike has not even begun, only the promise of one of the most famous, sacred, spiritual and protected sites in the world. I watched the hikers, mentally and physically preparing for some of the hardest days of their lives, from my climate-controlled train car, sitting in a nice chair while the stewardess served me coffee and fresh fruit for my hour and a half train ride to Machu Picchu. Suckers!
For the last few days I've sat down to write about Machu Picchu, but I am still having trouble finding the words. "Stunning" and "amazing" are useless and empty in comparrison to that feeling of standing on top of the world in that sacred space and time, feeling the energy coming out of the mountains and witnessing with my own eyes one of the last intact sites of the ancient Andean people. It is truly a spectacular sight. Instead of trying to force out words I can't say but only feel, I'll just assume you're all jumping out of your chairs, quitting your jobs and getting a babysitter so you can go see Machu Picchu for yourselves. Here is some advice for when you get there:
1. Get there on the first bus, ay 5:30 a.m.
2. Bring food, water, and your passport, because you're going to need all three.
3. Go for two days, because it's worth it.
4. Rent a Shaman.
Our Rent-a-Shaman, Juan de Dios Garcia Garcia, appeared through the mist near the bus stop early in the morning. We saw him from across the road walking slowly and, by the look of him, was either a drunk man trying to get home, or our Shaman. Drunkards don't usually carry condor feathers and incense home from the pub, so we waved and he ambled over, high as a kite and smiling, leaving a trail of coca leaves in his wake. He met the group and walked to the front, where one of our number, Rand, was chatting up three pretty, blonde Scandinavians and feeling pretty good about himself. Now, I have seen many things in my time, many odd experiences have knocked on my door, but I have never, never seen anyone get cock-blocked by a four and a half foot tall Incan Shaman at five a.m. It was so incredible, I had to name it "The Shamaning." Rand glared down at the little man as he stepped between him and the ladies, shooed them onto the bus and put us on the next bus. Too shocked by what had just occured, we all burst into laughter and the thoughts of killing our Rent-a-Shaman slowed faded from Rand's face. Juan de Dios Garcia Garcia didn't laugh. Shamans don't laugh, they shaman.
Once on top of the mountain, looking through the clouds to the ancient ruins and waiting for the sun to rise, our J.d.D.G.G. took us to a special spot, a giant rock once used as an alter and holy place. The ancient Inca and pre-Inca civilizations then and now believe and worship the natural world around us. They built temples to the sun and moon, stars, thunder, and the rainbow. They celebrate the Pacha Mama, or Mother Earth, as well as Taita Inti, Father Sun. Their life energy flows from the mountains, from the springs, from the wind, and they praise the equality in all things. We sat with our Shaman to talk of these things, to have a ceremony for the strength, beauty and balance of Nature. He spoke to us of his ancestors, about stating intention for ourselves there on the mountain, and pushing that intention out into the world. We made an offering to the Pacha Mama, adding quinoa and corn from the earth, coca leaves for medicine, our intentions, different colored carnation petals for power, energy and knowledge. He put in llama fat for the animals, fabrics for people and industry, and little bits of candy because, as our Shaman says with a secretive smile, "Pacha Mama, she likes candy." After the ceremony was over, hardly and eye was dry in the group, and we finished by being told we had to hug each person in the group individually, which I think made some of the men nervous and some of the women cry harder.
Unfortunately you can't light fires at Machu Picchu, it being sacred and all, so we folded up our offering for the Shaman to take home on the mountain and finish his Shamaning by offering it to the Sacred Fire. Sceptics will scoff and say he went back to his city apartment and threw it in the trash, but not our Shaman. Our Shaman is Incan and pre-Incan, he is past, present and future, and he is with me now as I write. He is the Pacha Mama, the Taita Inti, the stars and the rainbow, the corn and the coca leaves. But then so are you. So am I.
Tuesday, May 15, 2012
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
Pisco Sour Llama Hunt
How to make a Pisco Sour:
Ingredients:
-Pisco, a Peruvian grape liquor
-sugar
-fresh lime juice
-a raw egg white
Put everything into a blender and press the button.
In any other country in the world, adding raw egg whites to your cocktails would get you closed down, but here in Peru, it just seems to make sense. Especially when you're 11,200 feet above sea level and your head has been spinning for the last few days and you're contemplating buying a baby llama.
The last month has been a bit of a wild blur. Pete had been in a cast the month before with a fractured toe, put on him by the free, public hospital staff in Quito, but was having severe ankle pains. Finally it got so bad we just cut the cast off ourselves to find his ankle severly deformed and swollen. We hobbled over to the closest, most expensive, private hospital we could find where they took some more X-rays and found two other fractures in the ankle that the first hospital had missed. They called a Traumatologist from a specialist clinic to come take a look, and he declared that Pete needed surgery. It would cost five thousand dollars. I almost passed out.
Needless to say, we did not have five thousand dollars. Luckily Pete is from England, where the surgery would be free, so after a long talk we called his parents and told them he was coming home for an extended visit. He flew home a week later. Once again flying solo, I had decided to get back on the road. Although we have plans to make Quito our next home, it felt big and empty without him. I finished up work and headed to the beach for an overdose of sun I had been missing whilst living in the mountains. I spent a week in Canoa and Montanita, both on the Ecuador coastline, and then hopped over the border into Peru and down to Huanchaco to meet up with my good friend Riccardo. By "hopped" I mean it was a twenty-three hour journey on four buses, where I was bombarded with people selling everything from chocolates to Jesus to a ginseng extract that apparently cures AIDS, cancer, and malaria. So to all you suffering people in the world, there is a small Ecuatoriano man selling the cure on a bus between Guayaquil and Huaquillo.
After I arrived half dead on Riccardo's doorstep, wishing I had bought that ginseng, like any self-respecting Italian he took me down to the market for some fresh breakfast pizza. Apparently Little Italy has moved to Huanchaco, because in my few days there I met way more Italians than Peruanos. Yet my experience would have never been as wonderful without Luca and his home-made vegetarian breakfast pizzas. I would have stayed longer in that sweet, little surfer heaven but I had to book it down to Lima in time to meet my family.
Months ago I convinced my Dad and stepmom Jas to come climb Machu Picchu with me, and they showed up a few days ago with a big group of their friends on some whirlwind tour of Peru for two weeks. Travelling with parents is always fun because the quality of my food and the softness of my bed have increased dramatically, and the minute-by-minute itinerary is continuously amusing. While the rest of the group is out and about, my Dad and I have been enjoying some quality time running around Cuzco out of breath, chewing coca leaves for "altitude sickness", trying to find a baby llama for me and a roasted guinea pig for him. I do not intend on eating my llama as my father intends to eat his gerbil. In a few days we'll head down to the Sacred Valley and then up to the top of the mountain.
I'll keep you posted on the Pisco Sour Llama Hunt 2012.
Ingredients:
-Pisco, a Peruvian grape liquor
-sugar
-fresh lime juice
-a raw egg white
Put everything into a blender and press the button.
In any other country in the world, adding raw egg whites to your cocktails would get you closed down, but here in Peru, it just seems to make sense. Especially when you're 11,200 feet above sea level and your head has been spinning for the last few days and you're contemplating buying a baby llama.
The last month has been a bit of a wild blur. Pete had been in a cast the month before with a fractured toe, put on him by the free, public hospital staff in Quito, but was having severe ankle pains. Finally it got so bad we just cut the cast off ourselves to find his ankle severly deformed and swollen. We hobbled over to the closest, most expensive, private hospital we could find where they took some more X-rays and found two other fractures in the ankle that the first hospital had missed. They called a Traumatologist from a specialist clinic to come take a look, and he declared that Pete needed surgery. It would cost five thousand dollars. I almost passed out.
Needless to say, we did not have five thousand dollars. Luckily Pete is from England, where the surgery would be free, so after a long talk we called his parents and told them he was coming home for an extended visit. He flew home a week later. Once again flying solo, I had decided to get back on the road. Although we have plans to make Quito our next home, it felt big and empty without him. I finished up work and headed to the beach for an overdose of sun I had been missing whilst living in the mountains. I spent a week in Canoa and Montanita, both on the Ecuador coastline, and then hopped over the border into Peru and down to Huanchaco to meet up with my good friend Riccardo. By "hopped" I mean it was a twenty-three hour journey on four buses, where I was bombarded with people selling everything from chocolates to Jesus to a ginseng extract that apparently cures AIDS, cancer, and malaria. So to all you suffering people in the world, there is a small Ecuatoriano man selling the cure on a bus between Guayaquil and Huaquillo.
After I arrived half dead on Riccardo's doorstep, wishing I had bought that ginseng, like any self-respecting Italian he took me down to the market for some fresh breakfast pizza. Apparently Little Italy has moved to Huanchaco, because in my few days there I met way more Italians than Peruanos. Yet my experience would have never been as wonderful without Luca and his home-made vegetarian breakfast pizzas. I would have stayed longer in that sweet, little surfer heaven but I had to book it down to Lima in time to meet my family.
Months ago I convinced my Dad and stepmom Jas to come climb Machu Picchu with me, and they showed up a few days ago with a big group of their friends on some whirlwind tour of Peru for two weeks. Travelling with parents is always fun because the quality of my food and the softness of my bed have increased dramatically, and the minute-by-minute itinerary is continuously amusing. While the rest of the group is out and about, my Dad and I have been enjoying some quality time running around Cuzco out of breath, chewing coca leaves for "altitude sickness", trying to find a baby llama for me and a roasted guinea pig for him. I do not intend on eating my llama as my father intends to eat his gerbil. In a few days we'll head down to the Sacred Valley and then up to the top of the mountain.
I'll keep you posted on the Pisco Sour Llama Hunt 2012.
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