A sense of spirit; an ancient pulse; savage longing

11/6/09 Machu Picchu
Looking down on the ruins from atop Wayna Picchu (the conical mountain behind the National Geographic classic photo) as lizards scamper over sun-warmed rocks, I can easily see why the city was considered important. It´s nestled on a shoulder ridge surrounded by the safety of a ring of higher mountains like an insurmountable wall. From the lookout tower up here, an attentive sentry can see everything, and can easily warn the corresponding tower in the city by way of mirrors and smoke.
Wayna Picchu served as a lookout post replete with its own agricultural terraces and a dwelling. Who lived up here? For how long? Was it onerous or honorable? I can imagine youth being trained for the position gazing with envy at the bustling city below. And I wonder...is it sacrilegious to pee up here?

The overall layout takes perfect advantage of the topography, with terraces cutting down into the forest, and the king´s house—the only one with a private toilet—in the middle below temples to moon, sun, and sacred animals. A main path crosses the terraces and temples at a diagonal, providing a direct route from the Cuzco trail across to the town square—or maybe it´s a sport arena.
Machu Picchu itself vibrates with energy from the perfectly squared stones, to the Condor Temple with its carved statue whose wings are massive diagonals of natural rock. In its tunnel stomach, offerings of coca leaves, fruit, and money.
The centerpiece, a block carved to show the solstices and representing both geographical and magnetic north, is surrounded by tourists hoping to feel the ancient pulse. Here and there, miniature mountains are carved to represent and symbolize the surrounding mountain altars—and to serve as points of worship for those too old or sick or young or wounded or pregnant or lazy to climb the peaks.
The Inca people clearly cared immensely for this place, perfecting masonry in the important buildings; tending gardens and agricultural terraces; erecting temples to the various sacred creatures and natural gods; bringing a water channel from a spring high in the surrounding peaks; and staying hidden and unscuffed for centuries—until a white man found the overgrown ruins and opened it for the world´s shutters.

Even as I hop around greedily taking pictures, I feel like a trespasser, exploiting for my edification, exploited for my wallet.
The city is incomplete, with a large granite quarry in the middle, and building blocks still bearing pegs for carrying. They built the architecture right from the bedrock, prying blocks along natural fractures and building around the sources. It must have been quite a process demanding the effort of all the people. I wonder how much worship was possible amid incessant construction. I guess some things never change!

What exists of the city has not yet been fully uncovered, says our guide, who is knowledgeable and worthwhile. He points out the buildings and their likely meanings, hollering to demonstrate the sonic design of the priests´meditation temple. He cautiously mentions San Pedro cactus and ayahuasca, testing the group´s temperament. Facing a blank response, he skips past, but I can imagine the spiritual glory of psychoactivity in this holy place. How I long to be here alone with myself, far from the clatter of cameras and murmur of people who´ve traveled so far for this. When I close my eyes and feel the breeze, I can almost imagine it.

One always must wonder about the reliability of the information presented—most is guesswork or based on the writings of the Spaniards who arrived as disinterested and indiscriminate conquerors, rather than respectful scholars. But hell, the stories surrounding the place are important in their own truth, no matter factual accuracy.
Most intriguing is what caused the Inca people to abandon this place in the middle of perfecting it. Disease? Invasion? Schism? Aliens?
Assault from without seems highly unlikely, unless the sentries were corrupted. Plus no archaeological evidence of battle has been found. Perhaps the gods simply weren´t pleased.

The Incas must have been in excellent physical shape, racing along paths between here and their capital at Cuzco (ten days' walk), climbing the terraces and the staircases to temples, day-to-day living, building, dreaming.
So in tune with nature and tranquil self-reflection—and yet aggressive and warlike. Humans are so strange in our duality. I do not want to leave. It feels sacred and home-like, and I wonder what sort of connections other people on tour here feel.

Improbably, a storm gathers as I get back down the mountain to Machu Picchu. I take shelter in the shadow of a domicile, watching the clouds roil over the peaks. The rumble of thunder mingles with a distant train whistle. This place is truly magical, once I get past my anti-crowd bias (it helps that most of the crowd has already dissipated). For the time being, I´m left alone among those strands of the past who dwelt here, ate here, lived, loved, and laughed here—and eventually left, abandoning the stones to decay and restoration.

Who gazed off into the peaks 600 years ago? Who watched stormclouds approach from the west? Who rested against this wall after a long day of labor? Who longed to be anywhere but here, in this small-town area, longed to escape the confines of family and expectations? Who first saw this spot in the wild and decided to tame it in the names of the condor, the puma, and the snake? Who was last to leave its spiritual comfort when the time came to uproot—and did he turn back a moment to take it all in and lament its demise?

Really a remarkable place. Though my train time approaches, I desperately want to stay. How much would the people have expanded development? All the way down to the river? So crazy to see the incomplete sections—piles of natural slabs of granite—and envision their transformation to walls and footpaths. So much I want to write and capture, but no time nor mental organization!