A trip through The sacred valley.
Things don’t always go to plan; it’s part of the unexpectedness of travel. Sometimes it results in serendipitous outcomes, sometimes not. But it’s part of the experience, and embracing uncertainty is a lot more enjoyable than fighting against the realities of the situation.
I had booked a tour of the Sacred Valley and Machu Picchu to commence on Tuesday morning. Monday afternoon, I texted the company to confirm pick up times. They asked me to wait. The protests that had commenced that day were likely to continue into the next day and the company was waiting to see how it would affect things. If the protests continued, the authorities would suspend all tours for the day. They told me they’d let me know at around 18:00.
At 18:30 they texted to apologize. Negotiations were ongoing.
At 20:21 they texted to let me know that the meeting of the authorities had completed and that protests would continue. However, it was possible that the tourism sector may be allowed to work. It was possible that the morning would be cancelled, in which case they would arrange private transport to Ollantaytambo to catch the train to Aguas Calientes, where I was to spend the night before visiting Machu Picchu in the morning.
At 21:49 they texted to let me know that all trips were cancelled for the day, but they offered to rebook me the following day; I’d leave on Wednesday and return Thursday. It would mean that wouldn’t be able to visit Palccoyo, but all in all it seemed the best solution. I agreed.
In truth, I was glad for a day off. I found a beautiful cafe cum art gallery in the San Blas neighborhood and spent the day there, editing photos, and writing travel posts and postcards.
That night, when I was at dinner, the tour operator texted to ask if I were at the hotel. I said I’d be back in an hour or two and would text them when I arrived. They thanked me and told me that one of their representatives would meet me to give me my train tickets and my ticket to Machu Picchu.
At the hotel Fernando arrived almost breathless to meet me. He had had an exhausting day. He had one group that was at Machu Picchu and needed to get back to catch their flight back home. They had walked 10 hours to get to Ollantaytambo in order to catch a bus back to Cusco. I couldn’t quite discern if that had been the original plan, but the way in which Fernando talked about the situation it sounded like he had worked to get them back in time.
He handed me my tickets and made sure I understood which ticket was which and then told me that someone would come to pick me up between 6:30 and 7:00 in the morning. I thanked him and he whisked out the door, on to the next guest.
Wednesday morning, 6am.
I took a light breakfast at the hotel while waiting for my pick up. Soon Manuel appeared and lead me to the Plaza de Armas. He told me to wait while he disappeared down a side street, returning with Cristina, a fellow traveler who was visiting from Santiago, Chile. He lead us to the Plazoleta Espinar and told us to wait. Small 12-person buses arrived and picked up various people from the square. Soon, it was our turn; we boarded and were off.
A spinning demonstration.
Our first stop began when we parked in an unassuming street. Other buses had also stopped in the area and our guide lead us through a doorway covered with a sheet. We entered a courtyard divided into smaller sections and stalls selling locally-woven products.
We were lead to a corner area where a woman demonstrated how thread was woven from alpaca wool and dyed with traditional methods, leveraging plants and insects to create the colors. During the demonstration her son appeared and agitated for money with which to buy an empanada. She paused and handed him some soles. He ran off and soon reappeared with a paper bag in hand. He sat himself on a bench to watch his mom work, happily eating his empanada with both hands.
Tea was passed around and I was happy for the warmth. The morning was cold, and I had left my fleece at the hotel.
On departing, we passed a small set of model buildings in which a number of guinea pigs were scrambling about. People took photos of them as they scurried about. Cristina looked at me and pantomimed eating. They weren’t just pets, cute as they were. I had tried them in Ecuador, but not in Peru.
Just outside the door, a woman was selling empanada out of a cooler. I bought one and shared it with Cristina. It was delicious, the chicken tender and full of flavor, the dough perfectly baked. The kid had had the right idea.
Chinchero.
Our next stop was the archeological site of Chinchero, known for the terraces upon which the Inca grew quinoa and kiwicha. We breezed through the newer, Spanish constructions to stand at the edge of the terraces, admiring the valley and the sacred mountains.
Manuel rushed us past the various villagers selling hats and blankets. “If you see someone selling something, don’t stop,” he told us after he called back to some stragglers who had begun haggling one thing or another.
Manuel told us that this was the beginning of the Sacred Valley and pointed to the mountains around us. As we walked ahead, I asked him how often he lead tours. He said he usually doesn’t do the cultural tours, preferring to do spiritual tours of the sacred valley. He told me about the shamans and the traditions that lived on, and described the paths of awakening that one could take. He encouraged me to explore these options when I next had the time.
Moray.
Back on the bus, we drove to the archeological site of Moray, where the Inca had created terraced fields from natural indentations in the ground. Manuel told us that these were agricultural labs that the Inca had used to grow seeds from various elevations.
They would take seeds from the lowlands and plant them in the lowest of the fields, raising them up terrace by terrace as they experimented with what would grow at various elevations. Similarly, they would take seeds from the highlands and lower them.
At one point, Manuel paused in front of one of the sets of terraces and asked us what we thought it looked like. He focused on the women. When no one gave him a satisfactory answer, he gave it himself. It was a womb, representing the fertility of the land and the gestation of the seeds brought to and brought forth from the land.
Salt mines.
Back on the bus, he asked us if we were all interested in visiting the salt mines. It was an additional 10 soles for entry. Everyone agreed. But first we stopped at a store that sold the various salts produced in the area. We were given samples of the various grades of salt, including bbq salt and chocolates incorporating the local salt.
As we left the store, a woman boarded the bus and sold us on the local distilled spirits. She spoke in such an animated way she could have been a Disney cast member (or character). She offered us all shots after extolling the various health benefits of her elixir. She sold bottles in three sizes, wrapped in different threads: a mother, father, and child. If you bought the mother and father, the child came for free. She succeeded in moving two units.
At the mines, Manuel showed us the natural spring from which flowed the water that filled the terraces below. As we approached, I was reminded of the leather dying pools in Fez, though not the scent. Cristina asked me to take some photos of her in front of the pools and I obliged. I’d become her personal photographer the rest of the trip.
Ollantaytumbo.
The final stop on our tour before I was to split off from the group was Ollantaytumbo, an Incan fortress set on the mountainside. We climbed the massive terraced steps for views over the town and through the valley, and Manuel showed us how tightly the stones fit together. In the distance, he pointed out where the stone had been quarried from a nearby moutain, and then brought to the site.
Manuel encouraged those of us who were staying behind to spend some time visiting the town. Of our group of 12, 5 of us would be staying in Ollantaytambo as we waited for our trains to Aguas Calientes. As we split, I bid adieu to Cristina and two mother-daughter families who were also on the tour.
One mother-daughter group was also set to head to Aguas Calientes, but their train was much later. Mine would be leaving in a little over an hour, and I wanted to spend some time walking the cobble-stoned streets of the village.
We embraced as we said our goodbyes, and I followed the group that was continuing the tour. At the entrance to the park, I paused. There was something about Ollantaytambo that had seeped into me, and I was suddenly hesitant to leave. I sat on a stone wall and looked at the groups of people climbing up and down the terraces, their tiny forms moving slowly back and forth across the large stone ledges.
A walk through the village.
I forced myself to leave. Just outside the entrance to the archeological site, the plaza was filled with stalls selling all sorts of Peruvian clothes, hats, and tchotchkes to tourists. I avoided them and wandered into town.
All too soon it was time to head to the train station. I followed the directions Manuel had given us, walking back through the square to the river and taking a left. It was a 10 minute walk, he told us. I gave myself plenty of time so I could take photos along the way. And though they said to arrive 30 minutes before departure, it was more of a safeguard against late arrivals. I was the first in line for my carriage and the first to be seated.
The train left on time, pulling out of the station and through the valley as the sun moved behind the mountains. Along the way, traditional Peruvian flute music blasted out of the speakers as the AC blasted out of the vents. At regular intervals announcements reminded us to wear our masks, the Spanish announcement followed by an English one that sounded like a parody of how a voice actor would have portrayed a train announcer. Soon, the sun set and I tried my best to nap.
Aguas Calientes.
Roxanne met me at the train station and lead me to the hotel. As a town that seems to exist to handle the influx of travelers going to and from Machu Picchu, Aguas Calientes reminded me of my early backpacking trips and a cleaned up Khao San Road. The narrow streets were lined with restaurants, bars, hotels, and shops many catering to travelers.
My hotel room resembled hostels I had stayed in on that first backpacking trip to Southeast Asia and subsequent trips. My initial room was even one without windows, until I asked if they had anything else available. They kindly put me in a double facing the street, though I had to turn the water off and on by reaching into a cut out portion of the bathroom wall to turn a lever that controlled flow into the room.
It was getting late and I knew I’d have another early alarm, but I was hungry and determined to have some trout. I was in the mountains after all, and my mind cast itself back to a hiking trip I had done in the Kaçkar mountains of Turkey. One thing that sustained me on the last day of the hike was the promise of a warm bed and trout for dinner. When we arrived at the village at the end of the trip, I had two.
Back at the hotel, I said good evening Roxanne and two women who sat in the lobby as I headed upstairs to my room. When I reached the stairs I did a double take and walked back to the lobby. The mother-daughter duo that I had left in Ollantaytumbo sat before me; they had just arrived. We chatted for a bit and then I decided to turn in. I hoped to see them in the morning at breakfast, and hopefully on our tour of Machu Picchu. ⛰
