Machu Picchu: A Photo Essay

Uh-huh, it's picture time again on WayWorded.

Why have I been falling back on my pictures so often recently? Three reasons, I think. First, I've been busy. One thing people sometimes don't realize about freelance work is that, at the same time you're enjoying the freedom and flexibility of not working a 9-to-5, there's also no one around to say, "Stop. You're day's over. Go home." So, while I certainly don't ever work continuous 8-hour blocks, I'm usually going at it right when I wake up and right before I bed back down. And lately there've been plenty of projects to keep me occupied. Which...yes, is a good thing.

Second, I've put together quite a few photo essays during the last month as co-editor over at Matador Trips. I enjoy writing, but through these assignments I've also come to appreciate how powerful photographs can be. Which leads into my third point: there are some subjects for which it's simply more economical and honest to work in images rather than words. Case in point, Machu Picchu.

For anyone with plans to visit this destination of destinations, I wrote a budget guide last week: Machu Picchu on the Cheap. For everyone else, here's a little taste, in 10 photos.

***

1. I woke up a 4:00am to start hiking from the town of Aguas Calientes up the hundreds of Inca stairs to the gates of Machu Picchu. This is necessary to be one of the first in line. The air was damp and cold, and for the entire morning, a thick mist clung to the mountain and ruins.



2. A small herd of llamas grazes in the grassy plazas of the ruins. They're the tamest llamas I've ever seen. They'll let you touch them if you move slow.


3. My early entry enabled me to secure one of the 400 daily tickets to climb Wayna Picchu, the steep, daggerlike peak rising sharply behind Machu Picchu. At 10:00 I began the ascent, sucking coca leaves for added strength, and by the time I reached the terraces and ruins at the summit, the fog below was finally beginning to break.



4. The rest of the day was relatively clear, and from 2:00 onward, I enjoyed the site in near isolation, as most of the tour groups had already left. I could have wandered for days more.



5. Late in the afternoon, I followed the path up out of the ruins towards the Inca Drawbridge--sheer cliffs, and a steep drop to the valley below.



6. The next day, I walked back to the base of the mountain. Looking up, a goodbye glimpse of the rim of the ruins before hopping the train back to Cuzco.

Death March to Choquequirao, Peru

The treks offered by Cuzco-based tour agencies are numerous. Most involve a visit to Machu Picchu, but there are some featuring lesser-known destinations. I found myself on one of the latter last week--a four-day hike to the small Inca city of Choquequirao.

I made it back (barely) but I can safely say I've NEVER walked that much, through such difficult terrain, ever before. Part of the struggle was due to the fact that I opted to trek it all in three days instead of four, but there's simply no way around it--this tour is tough stuff.

Along with a tiny group, I traipsed a total of 74 kilometers (46 miles) in about 52 hours. Yes, that's an average of almost a mile an hour throughout the entire trip. But what really killed were the elevation changes.

To get to the ruins, you have to descend 1,800 meters (6,000 feet) to the floor of a valley...and then huff it up the same height on the other side! That's two gains of 6,000 feet in two days (one on the way in, one on the way out).

Like I said, death march. But...

...of course, it was worth it to spend three days in the Andes. The landscape? Incredible.

As I seem to be doing a lot lately, I'm going to let my photographs do the talking.

***

The mountains? Oh, the mountains. Sheer, massive, totally in control:




Our trail wound its way through the peaks, zigzagged its way up and down them, exacting every last calorie of energy from our legs and every last breath from our lungs:




Our camping spot on the second night looked out over terraces, over the valley bottom far below, through clouds, and across to the slopes opposite:




And the ruins. Nowhere near as impressive as I imagine Machu Picchu to be, but there were also only two other tourists there during our visit. Artful stonework, cradled between two shoulders of the mountain, in view of the snowy peaks above:




Sore muscles? Plenty.
Regrets? None.

The View

The view from my $15/night hostel room in Cuzco. I'll be enjoying this for the next 4-5 weeks.

Life is good.

Bolivia's White City, in Photos

I recently spent four nights in what Lonely Planet calls "Bolivia's most beautiful city," Sucre. They weren't far off. Instead of attempting a description of Sucre's alabaster colonial architecture, here's a selection of photos from the city. The first four were taken around town, the next five at the Convento San Felipe Neri. Enjoy.

Farewell, Cocha

I love farewell pieces. They give the perfect opportunity to reflect on exactly what it is about a place that moves you, and somehow makes it easier for you to communicate this to others. A recent favorite that comes to mind is Julie Schwietert Collazo's tribute to her Mexico City apartment.

I won't attempt to write so eloquently, but in the spirit of goodbyes (I depart tomorrow), here are a few things I'll miss about Cochabamba:


1. Street calls

Mexico City has its iconic traveling tamale vendors, but the Cbba. isn't lacking in musical street sounds by any means. There's the lady who walks by on Sunday mornings (I just heard her) selling the local paper, Los Tiempos. "Tiempooooooooooos! Los Tiempoooooooos!" she cries.

And the guy with the fruit cart: "Mandarina, papaya, plátano, mandariiiiiina!" He never fails to incite a response from the pack of dogs living on our block. They howl after each nasal, megaphoned call. Sometimes, he'll mock them, howling back into the microphone. It's hilarious.

2. Whistle of the guards

Another frequent noise is the multi-pitched whistle of the street guard. His post is a little blue, outhouse-type shed at the end of the block. We're still not sure whether he uses the whistle to scare off would-be criminals, or simply to prove to the neighborhood (and himself) that he's not sleeping on the job.

3. The mountains

Every time I step out the door, every time, it hits me. The green mountains that rise bulkily to the north of the city are so soft, almost like a big mound of moss; the texture is so tactile. When clouds roll in and coat the hills in fog, I have to pop outside and look.


4. Las Islas

North of the river, where the houses get a little nicer and the clubs/bars/restaurants a little swankier, there's a half block of street food heaven known as Las Islas. I developed a routine over countless visits: taco, salchipapas (hot dog and french fries), anticuchos (skewers of grilled cow heart), and then maybe, if I'm feeling uppity, one more taco. Oh, I can smell the grill smoke now.


5. The taxi guys

Just down the block is a taxi stand. I'm not sure why or how it exists, because as far as I know it's the only one in the city, but that's where I catch a cab to work each morning. Two or three drivers have picked up on my schedule, and there's always at least one waiting for me.

The first is more talkative. He likes to tell me about the snow that falls on the mountains sometimes during the winter, random things about the city. The second only recently confided that he'd once crossed illegally into the U.S. Two weeks walking nine hours a day (or night) through the Sonoran Desert, only to get nabbed in Phoenix, jailed for four months, and deported. I told him Cochabamba was better, and meant it.


6. Rain on the roof

It rained frequently when I first arrived. At work, my desk is in a converted back alley, covered with a hard corrugated plastic roof. There's another over part of the kitchen in our house. These roofs amplify the fall of the smallest drop of rain...I don't know why I like the sound so much, but I do.

7. Coca wads

The legend of the coca leaf is powerful. An Incan leader, facing the imminent Spanish invasion, beseeched the sun deity for assistance. "Ask anything," the god told him. So the leader asked the god to send the Spanish away and save his people. "I lack the power to do what you ask," the god replied. "But I can give you this, the coca plant. By chewing its leaves, your people will find the strength to face the hardships to come."

Most people here chew coca. The characteristic cheek wad and strong, planty odor are commonly seen and smelled. Also common are discarded wads, mashes of moist green flung onto roads and sidewalks. Coca's link to the past, and its role in current international and social affairs, is fascinating.

8. The best chorizo sandwich in the world

Uh-huh, the best. And it's the best because I discovered it, at the little no-name restaurant on 16 de Julio, just north of Heroinas. Everything she makes there--empanadas, chola sandwiches--is delicious, but the chorizo...I'll dream about it for years to come.

The little brown sausages, stewing in oil juice in a big pot on the grill on the sidewalk, scooped into a bread roll, topped with a seasoned salad, and finished off with a picante mix...wow.

9. Cristo de la Concordia

To be honest, I don't usually notice the world's largest Christ statue standing watch atop the hill just east of the house. It's become a predictable element of the city background. But every once in a while I will. Maybe he's shining bright white in the mid-afternoon sun, or perhaps lit with what we like to call disco lights (they change color) at night.

In some subconscious, intangible fashion, he's the soul of Cochabamba.


I still don't feel as if I'm leaving--maybe because I haven't even started to pack. But tomorrow night I'll be gone, and realistically, it's doubtful I'll ever see this city again, my home for 98 days.

Farewell.

Licancabur

The wind surges off the waves that pound Chile's north coast, whipping inland, rushing unchecked up the quick elevation gain of the western Andes, chilling as it rises, until, after 150 miles, it reaches the Bolivian border. This is where it found us, pounded us with the force of the sea and the cold of the mountain desert.

It was just before 5 in the morning, the stars still brilliant. Eleven of us, bent over from the cold, stood looking up at the wide, black silhouette in front of us, the shape of a mountain we couldn't really see. It was time to go. A few flashlights short, we climbed, slowly.


We were still creeping along the base when the first hints of a lightening crept up the sky over our shoulders. Quickly, the land spread out below us took shape. The shallow bowl with the two lagunas, the flat desert expanse stretching away, and the humps of dormant volcanoes ringing the horizon.

We were ready for the sun. It finally struck the false peak above us, pulling an orangey-golden filter down the whole of Licancabur.










Our guide (this would be his 400-and-something-th summitting trip) was knowingly taking it slow. Even though we were only a little above 5,000 meters, our bodies were resisting. Some were lagging, gasping and aching. At the big pink rock, we split into two. The rear guide took control of the second group, and though they continued at a slower pace, they wouldn't get much farther.

One deliberate step at a time, one deep, unsatisfying breath at a time, for the next three hours. Talking was out of the question. The fleeting head throbs started around 5,500 meters, the waves of dizziness shortly after. At each rest break, Laguna Verde and Laguna Blanca grew that much smaller, the spine of peaks in the distance fuller. We were now above the height of an adjacent mountain, nearly able to peer into its wide, crusty volcanic cone. The snow patches beneath our feet grew larger; icicles hung from the boulders we clambered over. Our heads seemed stuffed with cotton.


Finally, the peak. The false peak. But from its vantage point we could see our target: around the bend, up a snowfield, a pile of rocks. The summit.

We had to move fast now. Get up and get down. Otherwise, the altitude would sap our strength, leaving us helpless for the descent.

We were close, very close. "I quit. I'm done," someone said. We ignored him, stepping on. A trail of snow led up. Just a little more. "30 more seconds," I said. And then we were there.


True to his word, the guide didn't give us much chance to bask. And we didn't want it. We saw the skinny, deep depression with the frozen pond at the bottom--Licancabur's ancient fire spout. We looked west over Chile's Atacama Desert, gazing at the smoke belched from a distant active peak. We group photo-ed the hell out of the rock pile with the wood sticking out of it. We tried to express in simple sentences the oddity of standing on top of a Bolivian volcano, in the middle of a colored desert, at 19,400 feet. And then we left.

The descent was by a steeper route, slipping first down a wide snowfield and then slope after slope of volcanic sand.

Each meter drop energized us more than the coca leaves we'd been chewing all day. The oxygen was like food, or a blood infusion, pumping up our muscles and clearing our heads. We surfed down the sand and jogged the rest.










Volcán Licancabur, highest I've ever been, possibly will ever be (5,920m, 19,423ft).