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**Sorry, the links to the photos got messed up. Please view photos at www.dojoklo.com
Here are some shots from the Inti Raymi morning ceremony to greet the sun, at Coricancha. I got there bright and early, and hour and a half before, in order to get a good spot on the railing. But the front row was already full! What to do? Wait until someone makes the mistake of leaving their spot, and jump right in! Then push, nudge, and hold my ground for the next 3 hours.
**Sorry, the links to the photos got messed up. Until I get them reposted, please view photos at www.dojoklo.com
See THIS POST for videos of the bridge construction
**Sorry, the links to the photos got messed up. Until I get them reposted, please view photos at www.dojoklo.com
Rolando stopped the taxi right in front of the group of women weaving straw ropes, sitting by the side of the road. Their kids immediately ran to the window, “Propina, propina, carameletto?” Oh no, I thought, I haven´t even gotten out of the car yet and they’re asking for handouts. As soon as I pulled myself out and gathered my backpack and tent, the chorus of women started: “Propina gringito, propina. Carameleto para los niños?” – “Tip, little white boy. Candy for the kids?” My goodness! They even sounded a bit angry that the money and sweets hadn’t started to flow from my pockets. And I haven’t even pulled out my camera yet! I came here with the hopes of spending three days taking award winning, up-close photos, and the women were already not pleased with my presence. Is this how the next three days were going to be?
I had headed south from Cusco on Friday morning and took a bus for two and a half hours to Combapata. From there I switched to a collective taxi, and joined 9 other people as I crammed myself into the back of a tiny hatchback station wagon. As an unshaven old man slept on my shoulder we slowly wove our way through herds of cows and sheep being led down the road, and forty minutes later, after picking up yet another passenger, everyone got out in Yanaoca. I had thought we were going all the way to Huinchiri, but now I discovered I was the only one who wanted to go there. Since the festival wasn’t until Sunday, neither locals nor tourists were heading to the bridge site yet. So while it cost 2 soles to go the previous forty minutes, it was going to cost me 70 soles for the next hour and a quarter to Huinchiri! I sat in disbelief in the car, refusing to get out. I knew there were no other options, but I quizzed the driver. “Are there any other cars going? Any trucks, any buses?” “No, not until Sunday.” ”But 70 soles?!” I responded. “I haven’t brought enough money. I’ll never be able to get back!” I tried to bargain with him, and soon started to beg. “But you only charge 2 soles per person going back and forth all day. How much do you make in a couple hours? 30, 40 soles?” “Yes, but the road is very rough, full of rocks,” he replied. We sat in silence for awhile, and every couple minutes I went up 10 soles. “50? 60?” But 65 soles was the best I could get out of him “Sesenta?” I kept trying, just for a personal feeling of accomplishment. “Mas cinco,” he insisted. Finally I had to agree: 65 soles.
He was right. The road was terrible. We wound our way through dry grassland, with herds of cows and sheep and alpacas feeding on the q’oya grass that was the same material used to construct the bridge. There were mud huts with thatched roofs, and precariously constructed stone walls meandering across the low hills. At one point he gestured to a distant hill, “Atras, atras,” telling me the bridge was behind.
Along the way I got some perverse satisfaction in knowing that the bone jarring ride was probably doing at least 65 soles of damage and wear and tear to the taxi. After an hour we reached a gate across the road, with a couple of locals attending it. A handwritten sign was posted: Taxis – 5 soles, Camiones – 10 soles, Turistas – 70 soles. 70 soles for tourists! My heart sunk into my stomach. I´m never going to have enough money to get back, I thought. The taxi driver talked to the men for a bit, then turned to me asking for 2 soles. I quickly fished the money out of my pocket, discreetly hid my camera so I would look less like a tourist – if that was at all possible - and didn´t ask any questions. While I got in cheaply, it wasn´t until perhaps two days later that I realized “Turista” likely meant 70 soles for an entire tourist bus.
We passed through the gate, climbed over the top of the last hill, and began the descent to the river valley. “Quince curvas,” he told me – fifteen precarious turns in the road. I caught my first glimpse of the bridge far below, but it quickly disappeared. I saw a few tents in a pasture several hundred yards beyond. Then he dropped me off in front of the women.
Where I was dropped off. The bridge is right below, the weaving women just to the left, and the campsite in the distant top-center, to the right of the bus
The far side of the bridge can be glimpsed in the center
to be continued…
(see THIS POST for photos of the bridge construction)
Nearing completion of the Keshwa Chaca – Inca bridge made of q’oya grass – on Saturday afternoon, June 7, 2008:
The completed Keshwa Chaca – Inca bridge – on Sunday morning, June 8, 2008. With soundtrack of French tourists, who had instructed the locals to act natural as they cross…you know, so that their photos will look more “authentic”:
A few months ago I met a real life explorer in the South American Explorer´s Club in Cusco. He told me of his lifetime of searching for lost cities in the mountains of Peru, his studious research in dusty archives in Washington and Peru (I don´t think you´re allowed to say “archive” without first writing “dusty”), and his technique of countering poisonous snakebites with a modified stun gun. He even mentioned an NPR show where he was referred to as the real Indiana Jones. AND, he was on the verge of breaking an amazing story of the true modern discovery of Machu Picchu.
At first I was fascinated and captivated, eager to hear of his adventures and his theories. But after a few afternoons in the clubhouse, I repeatedly overheard him tell the same stories to any eager audience. I began to suspect I had already learned all the juicy information.
Then last week, returning on a path back to Ollantaytambo after hiking to the Pumamarca ruins, we were joined by a British paleoecologist who was studying the ancient remains of mites buried in the mud of a lake. The rise and fall of the mites, it turns out, from Inca times to present, corresponds to the rise and fall of the local populations, due to the fact that the mites lived in the llama poop. Anyway, at his first mention of modern explorers, we exclaimed, “we know one of them!” Turns out he has been working with this explorer, helping him get his newly gathered information into the news. And 5 days later…here it is:
When asked a question, a Peruvian will never respond that they don’t know the answer. Instead they will always offer an answer, any answer, its accuracy and veracity: unimportant. Ask the next passing Peruvian the same question, you will get a wholly contradictory, yet equally passionate response. Put the two responders together and ask the question, and you will be either greatly amused or infinitely frustrated by the ensuing debate, depending on the importance and urgency of the question.
This becomes an issue when you are asking for the location of, say, the busses to Sicuani. I first asked a teacher at the Spanish school. “Avenida Cultura,” she confidently responded, “al lado del grifo” – next to the gas station.
“So there is only one gas station on Cultura?” I asked in Spanish, hoping the sarcasm would translate. “No, of course not!” she smiled, amused by my bilingual wit. But returning to her serious face, she again insisted, “It is next to the gas station.” “¿Esta cerca? ¿Puedo caminar?” I asked – Is it close, can I walk to it. “Si, si, claro,” – of course.
I asked a few other people over the next week, but never got a similar, or clear response. A couple days later, I posed the question to the woman at the reception desk at my hostal. Surprisingly, she confirmed the earlier response. “Avenida Cultura. Close. Yes, you can walk to it.” “How often do the busses depart?” I asked. “Cada diez minutos,” – Every ten minutes. Based on her previously consistant record regarding similar questions, I was now certain of two things: it wasn’t close, and I’d consider myself lucky if the busses left more often than every ten days.
So I set out on a reconnaissance mission a few days before my journey. I started walking down Avenida Cultura, past one gas station – no sign of a bus terminal. Ten minutes later, another gas station. No sign of a terminal, so I asked a passing woman. “¿Sicuani?” she said as she looked pensively at her girl in tow. “¿Sicuani?” the little girl echoed. The woman then recalled, “Keep walking, it’s across from the hospital. When you get to the hospital, ask someone.”
About ten minutes later I stopped in a Radio Shack and happily discovered that blank CDs were 25% cheaper than in the center of town. After I bought a couple packs, I asked the woman where the paradero for the Sicuani busses is. “Two blocks, no mas. Maybe one and a half.” After three blocks I came across a bus terminal.
“Is this the paradero for the Sicuani busses?” I asked the first knowledgeable looking person I came across. “No, one block further.” And so finally, after two more blocks, just past the fourth gas station, I found my stop. Now, if I am only able to direct the taxi driver there on Friday morning.
Here is where I plan to be this weekend, in Huinchiri, to witness the annual rebuilding of the Keshwa Chaca, or Inca straw bridge over the Apurimac River. Notice how Huinchiri is a dot with no roads anywhere near it!
Here are some articles about the bridge:
http://www.csmonitor.com/2007/0725/p20s01-litr.html?page=1
I had a few hours before a meeting in Ollantaytambo, so I snuck in the exit to the ruins and took some photos. It seems that the B+W photos from my camera need some exposure and contrast work on Photoshop, but here are the raw (but not .RAW) images:
Some of the stones were very Noguchi -esque, such as the one in the background. Perhaps the Inca were Pre-Noguchian
And the sky over Ollantaytambo:
Apparently Elvis once ran for mayor in Ollantaytambo
And to make matters more interesting, he now lives there as a duck (see close up below)
