Today we are off on a real adventure! After my usual hearty breakfast of omelet, roll, fresh fruit and matte de coca, Jerry and I ask at the front desk about local buses to Chincheros. It is suggested that we take a taxi to the bus station and there buy a ticket to Chincheros/Urubamba. Outside the hotel the usual vendors push postcards, belts and necklaces at us. Moving past them the bellman summons a taxi and negotiates the price — two soles. In minutes we arrive at an empty lot except for one bus pointed towards the street. People mill around a small lean-to shack that serves as the ticket office. Apparently we have arrived just in time because the man who sells us two round-trip tickets points to the bus and says, “Pronto!”
On top of the bus is a decrepit old couch, a bike, many cardboard boxes, and what looks like a rug. “No chickens!” we say in unison. Moving to the very back of the bus we sit in the last two seats together. There is one other “gringo” couple on board, who we learn are heading to the Sacred Valley. As the bus pulls out of the station a young man begins to speak, in Spanish, while pointing out the window. At first, because of our limited knowledge of the language, we think he is pointing out sites of interest. Soon we hear the word “privatization” and know that his speech is a political discourse. As his voice becomes louder and more passionate, we silently pray that he will not go on for the entire one-hour trip. This young man, however, is a very skillful orator. His audience is engaged and responds to questions. Walking up the aisle the young activist hands every man, woman and child several hard candies, then continues on with his oratory. After several minutes he walks back up the aisle collecting either soles or the candies. One little girl sitting near us longingly looks at the sweets before handing them back.
On top of the bus is a decrepit old couch, a bike, many cardboard boxes, and what looks like a rug. “No chickens!” we say in unison. Moving to the very back of the bus we sit in the last two seats together. There is one other “gringo” couple on board, who we learn are heading to the Sacred Valley. As the bus pulls out of the station a young man begins to speak, in Spanish, while pointing out the window. At first, because of our limited knowledge of the language, we think he is pointing out sites of interest. Soon we hear the word “privatization” and know that his speech is a political discourse. As his voice becomes louder and more passionate, we silently pray that he will not go on for the entire one-hour trip. This young man, however, is a very skillful orator. His audience is engaged and responds to questions. Walking up the aisle the young activist hands every man, woman and child several hard candies, then continues on with his oratory. After several minutes he walks back up the aisle collecting either soles or the candies. One little girl sitting near us longingly looks at the sweets before handing them back.
Chincheros is a dusty, reddish-brown village of adobe buildings. Not knowing where the market is held, we follow others up a gradual hill, turning left at the first intersection. Before us is the market and further up the hill sits a charming looking restaurant that has an outdoor patio with tables and umbrellas. We head in that direction. |
Every seat on the bus is occupied, and people are packed tightly in the aisle and doorways. Each time the bus rounds one of the many twists and turns along the roadway Jerry is thrown into me or a woman sitting on his left. Continuing along we see tall, snow capped peaks beginning to appear on the horizon. As time passes, we realize that we have no idea when to get off the bus. It is impossible to hear what, if anything, the driver may be saying since there is no sound system. Turning to the woman on his left, Jerry says, “Chincheros?” She indicates with her fingers and a shrug that it is possibly five more minutes away. Moments later a sign appears on the side of the road that says something unintelligible to us, except for the word “Chincheros” written in large letters. We must be getting close.
When the bus comes to a stop Jerry turns to the woman seated beside him, she shakes her head “No.” At the next stop the woman reaches over and touches Jerry’s arm and motions for us to go — “Pronto!” We yell out over the din of passengers to wait, saying, “Pardone” over and over as we squeeze our way to the front of the bus. Someone behind me puts their hand on my butt and pushes me forward. Finally we have reached our destination. We are in Chincheros, the “Town of the Rainbow,” as it was known in pre-Hispanic days because it was believed to be the birthplace of the rainbow.
Chincheros
When the bus comes to a stop Jerry turns to the woman seated beside him, she shakes her head “No.” At the next stop the woman reaches over and touches Jerry’s arm and motions for us to go — “Pronto!” We yell out over the din of passengers to wait, saying, “Pardone” over and over as we squeeze our way to the front of the bus. Someone behind me puts their hand on my butt and pushes me forward. Finally we have reached our destination. We are in Chincheros, the “Town of the Rainbow,” as it was known in pre-Hispanic days because it was believed to be the birthplace of the rainbow.
Chincheros
On the way, we see a sign for the church, which, according to the guidebook, was built around 1607 by the Spanish upon the foundation of an Inka palace built by Tupac Inka Yupanqui. Some historians, we are told, believe this was an important population center during the Inka empire, and that Topa Inka, son of Pachacutec, had his country estate here. |
On the plaza in front of the colonial adobe church, scores of women and children have set out weavings, jewelry and small statuary in the plaza in front of the church. Small artisan shops flank the plaza on one side. Each shop seems to specialize in either musical instruments, weaving or wood sculpture. Poking our heads in we say, “Mucho buenos,” very beautiful! The pressure to buy is considerably less in the shops than out in the plaza.
Walking into the church, a man gestures for me to remove my hat. Inside it is refreshingly cool and dimly lit. Several people sit in pews praying, but the major activity involves men who carry in and arrange fresh flowers on the altar, side altars, and a small side chapel. The interior frescos and marbleized trompe l’oie on the walls appear to have been newly restored. As in the Catedral in Cuzco, I am struck again by the tight grip the Conquistadors still have on the indios of Peru. The statuary depicts a caucasian-faced Jesus, Mary, and apostles. Also in the church is a litter that is carried through the streets during festivals. On it is a life-size statue of a Conquistador sitting astride a white stallion while holding a sword raised high in his left hand. The horse, having reared up on its hind legs, is posed ready to stomp on a fear-ridden indio who has been knocked to the ground. Why, we ask ourselves, do the indios continue to allow themselves to be subjugated by the perpetrators of the past? It seems to us that their challenge is to bury the sword of the conquest so they can step out from the role of victim and reclaim their power.
Later I learn that the traditional knowledge that was passed down from the Inka went underground during the time of Spanish rule. Today Christian symbolism is embedded in Andean shamanism. For instance, Wiracocha or Creator is sometimes symbolized as a Christ figurine. However, indigenous people know the Creator cannot be represented by anything other than nature. Similarly, Pachamama, our eternal and collective mother, has earth-based expressions as Santa Tierras, and nuest’as, and is represented within the Catholic Church as madonnas. Additionally, the Catholic Church influenced the renaming of many holy mountains in the Inka cosmology — Pachatuson, as an example, is now called the Lord of Huanca and Waykaywilkey is Veronica.
Walking into the church, a man gestures for me to remove my hat. Inside it is refreshingly cool and dimly lit. Several people sit in pews praying, but the major activity involves men who carry in and arrange fresh flowers on the altar, side altars, and a small side chapel. The interior frescos and marbleized trompe l’oie on the walls appear to have been newly restored. As in the Catedral in Cuzco, I am struck again by the tight grip the Conquistadors still have on the indios of Peru. The statuary depicts a caucasian-faced Jesus, Mary, and apostles. Also in the church is a litter that is carried through the streets during festivals. On it is a life-size statue of a Conquistador sitting astride a white stallion while holding a sword raised high in his left hand. The horse, having reared up on its hind legs, is posed ready to stomp on a fear-ridden indio who has been knocked to the ground. Why, we ask ourselves, do the indios continue to allow themselves to be subjugated by the perpetrators of the past? It seems to us that their challenge is to bury the sword of the conquest so they can step out from the role of victim and reclaim their power.
Later I learn that the traditional knowledge that was passed down from the Inka went underground during the time of Spanish rule. Today Christian symbolism is embedded in Andean shamanism. For instance, Wiracocha or Creator is sometimes symbolized as a Christ figurine. However, indigenous people know the Creator cannot be represented by anything other than nature. Similarly, Pachamama, our eternal and collective mother, has earth-based expressions as Santa Tierras, and nuest’as, and is represented within the Catholic Church as madonnas. Additionally, the Catholic Church influenced the renaming of many holy mountains in the Inka cosmology — Pachatuson, as an example, is now called the Lord of Huanca and Waykaywilkey is Veronica.
Leaving the church, Jerry and I stroll the grounds admiring the many examples of Inka stonework — some exquisitely beautiful while other walls are in disrepair or hastily reconstructed. All the while, we are still contemplating out loud how dependent the indios are on a religion that has suppressed them for centuries. Why do their churches display religious art that only depicts the agony of Christ’s betrayal and crucifixion rather than the glory of his redemption? |
Having some of the richest and most fertile soil in the Sacred Valley, Tupac Inka built agricultural terraces, the remnants of these farming terraces can be seen all the way to the mouth of the Vilcanota River, which are still in active production today growing produce sold at the local outdoor market. |
How can people as advanced as the Inka — who developed a knowledge and understanding of astronomy and geometry, architecture, masonry, agriculture, communication and spirituality — lose so much of their culture, skills, confidence and impeccability? These questions haunt us. If the knowledge of the Inka can be lost in so short a time, what does that say about the potential longevity of our own culture?
Wandering further, we come upon a Chincheros woman weaving beautiful belts on a back-strap loom. I indicate with words and gestures that I, too, weave and made myself a loom very much like hers. She smiles and pats my hands. I buy two of her belts, one which I tie around my hat as a hatband. As we get ready to take our leave, she flashes a toothy smile and asks if we would buy one of her manta cloths. Smiling, we say, “No gracias.” Retracing our steps back towards the church, we cross the plaza to a small archeological museum that contains shards of Inka pottery and implements found in the area. The signage is both in Spanish and English. Informative as the displays are, they do not clear up our lingering questions. |
Stomaches growling we head back down the hill to the charming restaurant we spied earlier, Inka Inn, for lunch. We both decide on Dieta de Pollo, a wonderful hearty chicken soup made with lots of fresh vegetables that is served with freshly baked rolls, and of course, matte de coca.
Fortified, we continue downhill to the Chincheros Market. It is much smaller than we anticipated. The center area, which is undercover, has primarily fruits and vegetables while the outside perimeter and center area contains primarily commercially produced textiles, rattles from Amazonia, small trinkets, pan-flutes, and the like. Very little appears to be locally made. We are disappointed!
Vendors call out to us to look and buy their things. We say, “No gracias” over and over. The Market is full of “gringos” who are actively bartering for better prices, feeling smug that they saved several soles — pocket change for them. Jerry and I are irritated both by the “junk” these Peruvians are selling for their livelihood and the sameness of the stuff being sold everywhere we turn. Like so many of the things sold in the United States, this, too, has no soul. Perhaps, we speculate, a worldwide soul retrieval needs to occur.
Vendors call out to us to look and buy their things. We say, “No gracias” over and over. The Market is full of “gringos” who are actively bartering for better prices, feeling smug that they saved several soles — pocket change for them. Jerry and I are irritated both by the “junk” these Peruvians are selling for their livelihood and the sameness of the stuff being sold everywhere we turn. Like so many of the things sold in the United States, this, too, has no soul. Perhaps, we speculate, a worldwide soul retrieval needs to occur.
Heading out of the Market single-file, I pass an old woman wearing a traditional stovepipe hat. Her face is very wrinkled and leathery from the sun, but what strikes me is the look she gives me. Walking past, I turn to Jerry who is behind me. He nods his head while pushing me forward. A few seconds later he says, “I know, she energetically attacked me, too.” Fascinating. I have made it a practice to always bring up the “bands of power,” which were installed around me several years ago. These bands act like a force-field around me in crowded or chaotic situations like this, or when traveling and otherwise in contact with other people’s energy that is not of my choosing. This is the first time that I have felt a conscious energetic assault and feel grateful for the strength of my bands in deflecting her energy. Jerry has the same reaction. High-five-ing each other we wonder if she felt her negative energy deflected back.
On the walk back to where the bus dropped us off earlier, we meet a Canadian who has been traveling around South America for several weeks. Most recently, he spent time in Ecuador, which he describes as much more impoverished than Peru, and is heading to the Urubamba Valley — the Sacred Valley — and Machu Picchu. |
Before we can answer his questions about the expedition we will be joining in a few days our bus arrives and we hurry to catch it. Waiting at the bus stop are four young girls dressed in traditional outfits. For one sole each they sing us songs and allow me to take their picture. They are too cute to pass up the photo opportunity!
Chincheros is not the bus’ first stop and is already crowded when we climb aboard. A young man gallantly gives up his seat next to an Indio woman for me. Gratefully, I say, “Muchos gracias.” With a huge smile that shows off a gold capped front tooth, he mumbles something in response. Jerry works his way to the back of the bus where he eyes a seat beside a woman with a young child on her lap.
The people around me are all colorful and curious to my eyes. Though I smile and say, “Buenos dios,” the woman sitting next to me moves as far away from me as possible. Perhaps she thinks I will give her cooties! Behind me is seated an old woman wearing a white stovepipe hat with a colorful woven hatband. After several stops, a woman with two young children and an infant comes on board. Her young son takes the newly vacated seat in front of me. The little girl is scooped up by the woman sitting behind me as her mother squeezes to the back, and pulls down a retractable seat in the aisle next to Jerry. Behind me the girl laughs as she is bounced up and down on the old woman’s lap. Rounding a bend in the road, the woman beside me is thrown off-balance, knocking me off the seat.
Falling into the aisle, the woman behind laughs and reaches out to steady me with her free hand. Moments later the bus hits a pothole and we are all bounced out of our seats. Everyone laughs aloud — this bus has no suspension! Rounding another bend, an empty propane tank comes rolling down the aisle like a fast moving bowling ball. More laughter! When the road angles downwards it becomes evident that replacing the brake pads is long overdue. Each time the bus door opens the smell of burning brakes assaults my senses. The smell, as well as going around bends too fast, starts making my stomach woozy. Closing my eyes, I try to visualize being back in Cuzco. Instead of finding calmness, I remember the city smells of gasoline, carbon monoxide, and urine. “Best find another image,” I silently counsel myself. Behind me the old woman says something to the little girl as she pulls the “ponytail” of my hatband. The only words I recognize are “senorita” and “gringo.” Turning towards them, I smile and make a silly face. They both laugh. Familiar landmarks begin to appear.
Disembarking, Jerry tells me that the infant sitting on the woman’s lap next to him nursed most of the way back to Cuzco, and the woman on his other side had her wet sleeve pressed against Jerry’s arm the whole way back to town. He confides that all he could think about were the germs being transmitted to his clothing.
Chincheros is not the bus’ first stop and is already crowded when we climb aboard. A young man gallantly gives up his seat next to an Indio woman for me. Gratefully, I say, “Muchos gracias.” With a huge smile that shows off a gold capped front tooth, he mumbles something in response. Jerry works his way to the back of the bus where he eyes a seat beside a woman with a young child on her lap.
The people around me are all colorful and curious to my eyes. Though I smile and say, “Buenos dios,” the woman sitting next to me moves as far away from me as possible. Perhaps she thinks I will give her cooties! Behind me is seated an old woman wearing a white stovepipe hat with a colorful woven hatband. After several stops, a woman with two young children and an infant comes on board. Her young son takes the newly vacated seat in front of me. The little girl is scooped up by the woman sitting behind me as her mother squeezes to the back, and pulls down a retractable seat in the aisle next to Jerry. Behind me the girl laughs as she is bounced up and down on the old woman’s lap. Rounding a bend in the road, the woman beside me is thrown off-balance, knocking me off the seat.
Falling into the aisle, the woman behind laughs and reaches out to steady me with her free hand. Moments later the bus hits a pothole and we are all bounced out of our seats. Everyone laughs aloud — this bus has no suspension! Rounding another bend, an empty propane tank comes rolling down the aisle like a fast moving bowling ball. More laughter! When the road angles downwards it becomes evident that replacing the brake pads is long overdue. Each time the bus door opens the smell of burning brakes assaults my senses. The smell, as well as going around bends too fast, starts making my stomach woozy. Closing my eyes, I try to visualize being back in Cuzco. Instead of finding calmness, I remember the city smells of gasoline, carbon monoxide, and urine. “Best find another image,” I silently counsel myself. Behind me the old woman says something to the little girl as she pulls the “ponytail” of my hatband. The only words I recognize are “senorita” and “gringo.” Turning towards them, I smile and make a silly face. They both laugh. Familiar landmarks begin to appear.
Disembarking, Jerry tells me that the infant sitting on the woman’s lap next to him nursed most of the way back to Cuzco, and the woman on his other side had her wet sleeve pressed against Jerry’s arm the whole way back to town. He confides that all he could think about were the germs being transmitted to his clothing.
Navigating our way back to the Plaza de Armas, we pass by the exquisitely fine mortar-free stonemasonry of Qoricancha (Temple of the Sun), which served as the main astronomical observatory for the Inka Empire. Perpendicular to the Temple is the Hotel Liberator where Rick and I stayed while on a World Wildlife Fund trip, in 1998. |
Needing to use a restroom, I know that the one in this hotel will be very clean. The door attendant welcomes us and points in the direction of the restrooms. All very civilized.
Still early for shops to be open after siesta, we head back to the Trattoria Adriano for a big slice of torte chocolat and dos matte de cocas — a bargain at under $4 US. Today there is a large table of American tourists — a curious assortment of ages, gender, and style. Jerry and I imagine a variety of reasons they are traveling together — a community Sister City trip, a common church affiliation — but none seem to fit. As several of the women in the party prepare to leave, my curiosity gets the better of me. In answer to our inquiry, we are told the group is made up of people from throughout the United States who simply saw an ad for the trip in a publication and signed up. Interesting. I cannot imagine traveling that way, but. . . One of the men in the group lingers behind to talk with us. It is their first full-day in Peru, and after a few days in Cuzco they will head to the Sacred Valley and Machu Picchu, and then on to the Galapagos Islands for 10-days. We tell him we are friends from California who have been studying an energy healing modality for several years, and will be meeting up with a small group led by our mentor in two days. By the time he is ready to leave he has lost sight of his group. Luckily, he knows where they are heading — La Catedral — so we are able to give him directions. Shortly, two men come and sit at the next table. They look to be in their mid-to late 20s, and both have long hair and are good-looking — particularly the dark-haired man who orders torte chocolat and matte de coca. Jerry and I try to place their accents, but are stumped. Again my curiosity pushes me to engage them in conversation. The dark-haired man tells us that they are from Israel and will be traveling in Peru for two-weeks. We tell them that we are from California — San Diego and Santa Barbara, and chat a bit about places we have each thus far visited. A last sip of tea, our bill paid, we head back to our hotel.
Still early for shops to be open after siesta, we head back to the Trattoria Adriano for a big slice of torte chocolat and dos matte de cocas — a bargain at under $4 US. Today there is a large table of American tourists — a curious assortment of ages, gender, and style. Jerry and I imagine a variety of reasons they are traveling together — a community Sister City trip, a common church affiliation — but none seem to fit. As several of the women in the party prepare to leave, my curiosity gets the better of me. In answer to our inquiry, we are told the group is made up of people from throughout the United States who simply saw an ad for the trip in a publication and signed up. Interesting. I cannot imagine traveling that way, but. . . One of the men in the group lingers behind to talk with us. It is their first full-day in Peru, and after a few days in Cuzco they will head to the Sacred Valley and Machu Picchu, and then on to the Galapagos Islands for 10-days. We tell him we are friends from California who have been studying an energy healing modality for several years, and will be meeting up with a small group led by our mentor in two days. By the time he is ready to leave he has lost sight of his group. Luckily, he knows where they are heading — La Catedral — so we are able to give him directions. Shortly, two men come and sit at the next table. They look to be in their mid-to late 20s, and both have long hair and are good-looking — particularly the dark-haired man who orders torte chocolat and matte de coca. Jerry and I try to place their accents, but are stumped. Again my curiosity pushes me to engage them in conversation. The dark-haired man tells us that they are from Israel and will be traveling in Peru for two-weeks. We tell them that we are from California — San Diego and Santa Barbara, and chat a bit about places we have each thus far visited. A last sip of tea, our bill paid, we head back to our hotel.