Farewell, My Lovely

O´Sullivan Checks In

The past week has been fraught with emotion, historical sights, broken Spanish and rabid dogs. I must say it has been the best so far. This correspondant has seen some remarkable things, like a modern day Sir Walter Raleigh, except without the penchant for colonialisation, tobacco, and buggery. But Peru continues to charm, even in the industrial wasteland of Puno (the southernmost point) and before I leave, I feel I must commit a few sights and sounds to the eternal hard drive of internet memory.

John, And A Baptism Of Cusqueña

A curious creature has fallen amongst us, a human frenzy of travel pants and stubble and we shall call him John Garry, preacher of the Straight Path (to the pub), a sadist, a yenta and a mensch. He is the new element, the changed dynamic and we have welcomed him to our midst as a mother would a child to her breast. Thus spoke John when he descended from the heavens at Lima airport:

"Lads. How´s it goin´?"

And the Lord said unto John "Fear not these children of debauchary and sloth for their souls are pure and they shall follow a path if a path is shown them". Thrice John struck the seal of the gourd of Cusqueña and the ground shook with the fearful clatter of the Allmighty. Thenceforth the shepherd of Abbeylawn, Ennis took his lambs to the human morass they call "Up Town" and they enjoyed the honey by the water and the bar and laughed and cried out, for they were truly alive and rejoiced.

For the uninitiated, John Garry is our newest travelling companion, and a gentleman. He hails from Ennis, a childhood friend of He Who Thinks Much About a Great Many Things But Shall Not Speak About Them Until Six Months Have Passed. He is about my height, a civil servent with the Department of Justice and a musical encyclopaedia (one can imagine the conversations). I am glad for his presence as the slightest slathersome drip of inertia had crept into our travels and our new friend has given us a much required metaphorical kick in goolies.

Macchu Picchu, the Sunrise, An Irritating Tour Guide, And Gunther´s Self-Satisfied Grin

It beckoned, it called, it flashed shiny silver dollars in front of us and eventually we gave in to the allure of Macchu Picchu, the Sacred Valley and the tourist prodution line of that corner of Peru. We accepted our fate; the processing, packaging, and forcefeeding of human souls looking for "that unique spiritual experience". Unique inasmuch as 60m people have already seen, heard, and felt what you think is yours to treasure in secret and silence. Unique whereby 60% of your so called awakening consists of listening to Americans expounding vapidly upon theories, ways, gods, and love. Fuck off. Similarly, one has to endure that most hateful of species, that most irritating entity, The Tourist Who Wants To Be First In The Queue At All Costs.

We left Cusco in the halflight under flickering stars and cigarette smoke for Pisac. During and unremarkable bus journey ("oh look, a llama!") our guide described some features of quechua
culture and language. Interestingly, quechua is an onomatopoeic language, in which the sound of the word describes the nature of the subject. For example, the actual word for Chicha (a drink made from fermented corn) is, in the native tongue "Ah ha", descriptive of the sensation of refreshment after imbibing. I found this a little far fetched; having tasted Chicha, I would called it "Ackackackspluffhurl". It truly is terrible stuff, tasting roughly the same on the way up as it does on the way down.

Pisac consisted of a huge semi-agricultural terrace with a collection of temples devoted largely to sun-worship at the summit. The temples were built in the Imperial symmetric style, the architectural mode most often associated with the Inca culture though hardly the most common throughout the empire. It was reserved for ceremonial or royal buildings. John and Mary Quechua more usually made do with mud bricks and thatch.

Ollamtaytambo was more impressive- a steeply terraced structure only partially completed at the time of Spanish conquest. There was something of a Marie Celeste feel to the site, as construction block littered the ground and the beautiful sun temple at the top was only half completed but fully defaced by the Spanish. Across the valley, two corn storage depots acted as markers for the winter solstice and equinoxand between them lay a natural rock formation similar to a man´s face in profile, apparently that of an Inca deity. Far fetched, but plausible.

Incredibly, the rocks used by the Incas to construct the Sun Temple, weighing 20 tonnes, were hauled more than 20 miles from the top of a nearby mountain, accrss the valley below and to the top of the Ollamtaytambo using ropes, tree trunks and human hands. The more I see of Inca culture, the more I appreciate the parallels between Peru and Egypt and the remarkable feats of perfect engineering carried out with the most basic tools.

After Ollamtaytambo, we made for the town centre to wait for the train to Aguas Calientes (Macchu Picchu). There we ate, drank and thought about what we had seen, happy that we had come but pondering a little what we had left in Cusco.

I must describe the walk from the town centre to the train station.We took a left one block down from the main square and stepped into the murk, the night formenting above us, the constellations peeking down like curious children. the road was rocky and ankletwist uneven underfoot and progress was made slowly, gingerly. Suddenly I heard a scuffle, the splatter of light footsteps, and in the haze of the faint carlight horizon, quechuas started to race towards me light brightly jacketed Viet Cong, packs burdening them, their feet light and fast and accurate, their progress quick and sure.

I stopped, entranced by the dust, racing and light and reached to my hip for my camera. The shutter clicked and the lens sucked up all the light it could and the beauty and mystery of the scene struck immortal into my cameratricks memorybox. It made me feel the outsideness of it all again and the happiness is pervasive. Our minds drank rich in the halflight among the cigarette stalls and coca leaf suckers. and the frazzled fragments rearranged themselves into a whole and we carried on along the trainlines to the jewel, the goal, Macchu Picchu.

The next morning at 5.30 we set off for the ´Picchu and as we arrived climbed one of the north facing terraces for a better view. As we sat, the sun began to peek out over the eastern mountaintops flanking this cragclad citadel in the clouds and began to paint the western slopes in the warm glow of morning. In the company of my friends I watched as the sun broke over the eastern ridge and bathed the walls and recesses of Macchu Picchu in light and dark, its rays tramlines straight from the heavens. It is not given to many people to wittness sheer and unadulterated beauty but that day, with the hum of foreign voices and birdsong in my ears ad clean air in my lungs I saw an amalgamated perfection of the union of man and nature and I will never forget it.

Thereafter we climbed Waynapicchu, a peak overlooking Macchu Picchu, and were rewarded with spectacular views of the entire complex, which is shaped like a condor in plan perspective. After our descent, we toured the actual complex by ourselves despite the admonishemnt of out official tour guide. To be quite honest, it was far too beautiful a day to listen to someone natter on for three hours about the relative merits of agrarian economies and the Inca Superman.

"MACCH PICCHU- GRACIAS POR TU VISITA" read the sign flashing past as we crawled back up the valley in search of rest in Cusco. As the klaxon sounded I thought of the glory of the sunrise at Macchu Picchu, the beautiful vista from Waynapicchu, the feeling of total experience and exhaustion, the wine, an alpaca steak, sleep.

And as the old metal dame train puttered up the river I looked around at the faces of the others, the recurring faces over of prevous days:

The Polish Girls
The German Girls
The Argentine Chainsmoker
The "I shall protect you with my life" Boyfriend and "the protected"
"Gunther Picchu", the uptight German who sniggered at us when he saw we were getting on the second bus on the day, and not the first.

It will continue, but we´re on a tourist trail, so so what?

Next on Hefty Women;

What becomes of the broken hearted?
Did our hero learn his lesson?
The Childcraft Trek continues with Lake Titicaca...