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INCA DINKA DO 8/25/2012 5:04:44 AM
We first laid eyes on Cuzco and Macchu Picchu thirty-four years ago, and I am glad it was then, long before the hordes of tourists inundated the place and made it the pitifully crowded mecca it has become. When we arrived, there were only a few other Americans in sight. We had the place pretty much to ourselves.
We were in Peru to visit my wife’s family. Her sister, Susan, was a longtime resident and world traveler, along with her husband Dick; he was with Eastman Kodak’s international division, an executive of stature, and they lived with their two daughters in a huge and opulent mansion with servants outside of Lima.
My wife and I visited them often at various Latin American venues (the price was right), and for this particular trip we were treated to a few days to explore Hiram Bingham’s discovery at ancient Macchu Picchu.
Due to pressing company business, Dick was unable to accompany us, but he arranged though his company’s travel agency for a flight over the Andes from Lima to Cuzco, where we stayed at the charming Piccuqa Hotel, enjoyed a guided tour of Sacsahamań and the Inca Baths at Tombomachay — we also got to experience deluxe transportation via Ferrocarril Cuzco á Santa Ana Railway from Cuzco to Macchu Picchu, along the Urubamba River.
Well, “deluxe transportation” may be a slight exaggeration. The rail line in those days was a narrow gauge, rickety-rackety affair that made 1890 stagecoach travel seem like a 2012 Japanese bullet train. Broken and dirty windows fully opened to allow the inhalation of smoke and soot, our seats were upright wooden benches, and the bulging boxcars barreled and bounced along (sans lavatory facilities) at speeds slightly over four miles per hour.
The local Peruvians with their children, guitars and livestock provided a certain ambiance, along with vendors plying their inedible delicacies on body-strapped shelves; we boarded this torture chamber at daybreak and found it tolerable for all of six minutes. Unfortunately, the journey took all morning, a total of six hours.
In any event, it was a diversion after exploring the red-roofed city of Cuzco with its cobblestone streets, tiny alleys and gold-laden Jesuit cathedrals on La Plaza de Aremas — not to mention exquisite dining and pots of coca tea — and sidewalk bazaars where we bought pieces of folk art with no notion of how we would ever get them home.
Macchu Picchu, it turned out, was more than we bargained for, well worth the agony of getting there. How the derelict school busses made it up the winding Bingham Highway without either plunging into ravines that culminated 6,000 feet below, or at least colliding head-on with others coming in the opposite direction, is a mystery as profound as the actual village itself.
Shrouded in a mist of clouds well over 10,000 feet in the Andes, I took rolls of 35mm photographs, one of which was of my wife and me — “Son of the Sun, Mystical Founder of a Dynasty, and his Woman” — it became our all-time classic Xmas card.
The technological marvels and engineering innovations of this remarkable village still befuddles the mind of modern man, as well as my own meager understanding of agriculture and irrigation. I was completely at a loss to explain this “lost civilization.”
No matter that — I had my own irrigation problems that day. The early morning departure, combined with the altitude, and bouncing on the Peruvian train — never mind the dilapidated school bus from the train station to the village and the abundant mate de coca tea the day before — resulted in exploding kidneys that demanded immediate attention.
“I do not think there are any restrooms among the ruins,” stated my understated but pragmatic sister-in-law.
“But,” my good wife pointed out, “there are plenty of stone walls and trapezoidal doorways around. Go for it.”
Although I hated to — and fearful of being caught (or worse yet, seen) — I made haste for a secluded area where I noisily unzipped and relieved myself while still viewing the Palace of the Princess above the terraces, as well Hauyna Picchu off in the distance.
True, nothing but personal ecstasy ever came of it, and we have never again visited the mysterious, miraculous site. In a few days we were back in Lima and eventually in the USA and Western New York. It was still winter and there was still snow to be blown from my driveway.
But Macchu Picchu would, despite the National Geographic, never be the same. Once stained by a negligent and desperate tourist, it would forever be little more than a bunch of medieval rocks, to explore, mesmerized, as you pee on them.
