Morning comes early. I awake, again, to the alarm ringing in my ears. It is 5:00 a.m. The hot shower feels delicious. A gentle way to wake up. This morning we have an early departure to avoid possible problems involving the General Strike. Our bags are lined up outside our rooms by 6:30 a.m., and immediately after breakfast we are off to the Moray Circles!
First, we must venture across the road, through the vendors who are already gathered to sell us their wares, to the waiting bus. Mercedes Benz calls out, “Suzi, Buenos dios! You buy from me today?” Still half-asleep, Suzi walks by without saying a word.
The Moray Circles
First, we must venture across the road, through the vendors who are already gathered to sell us their wares, to the waiting bus. Mercedes Benz calls out, “Suzi, Buenos dios! You buy from me today?” Still half-asleep, Suzi walks by without saying a word.
The Moray Circles
The road to the Moray Circles follows the Waykeymayu River downstream to the town of Urubamba. Soon after leaving the hotel evidence of the strike is everywhere — rocks and boulders are strewn across the road. Our driver carefully skirts and weaves between the larger ones, and at times drives over the smaller rocks. Holding on to the seat in front for stability, we are nonetheless thrown back and forth into each other. |
There are no safety belts. Rounding one bend, we encounter a bonfire burning in the middle of the road. Skirting to the left, the bus’ wheels go off the payment and we are “four-wheeling” onto a field. Minutes later, we meet with the remains of a truck cab that has been abandoned in the roadway. Several of my traveling companions begin whining at the inconvenience of the debris strewn in the road, and how simple-minded are the acts of protest. Conversely, I am fascinated by the acts of defiance we meet. They are all nonviolent and demonstrate solidarity that crosses boundaries of economic, geographic and professional stratification. Driving through a small town, all the shops are closed and the men are gathered outside by the road in deep conversation. Some field workers cut cornstalks in a few fields, but mostly the daily activity of life has come to a standstill. Farther down the road more boulders — larger ones — have been dislodged from a hillside and pushed onto the road. This time there is not enough room to pass. Disembarking from the bus, we push and roll rocks and boulders out of the way. Some are just too big — even when a number of us work together!
In the center of town, where the Waykeymayu River transforms into the Urubamba River, we cross over a trestle bridge and switch-back our way up to the Chinchero Plains. The view from above is breathtakingly beautiful.
The road leads through a small village that reflects the Colonial-period of architecture. The buildings are all made out of adobe, sunbaked and cracked. Above the doorways are lintels carved with each familial coat-of-arms. The village roads are narrow and either dirt or cobbled with stones that stand on end so the grooves are deep and very uncomfortable to walk on. There is no traffic, in part because of the strike, but also because there are not many motorized vehicles here. The main street has the only four-way intersection and is barely wide enough for the bus to squeeze through without rubbing against the buildings. A little farther up ahead, our driver stop to help push a car that is stuck in a ditch, which serves as the sewage gutter. Just as our bus is poised to make a 90-degree turn onto a “one llama” road, an equally large tour bus approaches. An impossible yet miraculous dance ensues. After much maneuvering the two buses squeeze by with only bumps to the side-view mirrors. Moments later we meet a herd of cattle walking directly towards us. Unfazed, the cows, too, squeeze past us — peeing and pooping as they go. “Typical traffic jam,” Marco shouts from the front of the bus. Abruptly, the bus comes to a sudden halt. A young shepherd, just a boy, is moving his flock of sheep just ahead. I watch utterly amused as a newly born lamb runs to keep up with its mother as it tries to suckle. Too cute! On the other side of the bus, eight children run up with outstretched hands clamoring for candy. After what seems like hours, we make our way out of the village behind a very slow procession of bulls and oxen.
The road leads through a small village that reflects the Colonial-period of architecture. The buildings are all made out of adobe, sunbaked and cracked. Above the doorways are lintels carved with each familial coat-of-arms. The village roads are narrow and either dirt or cobbled with stones that stand on end so the grooves are deep and very uncomfortable to walk on. There is no traffic, in part because of the strike, but also because there are not many motorized vehicles here. The main street has the only four-way intersection and is barely wide enough for the bus to squeeze through without rubbing against the buildings. A little farther up ahead, our driver stop to help push a car that is stuck in a ditch, which serves as the sewage gutter. Just as our bus is poised to make a 90-degree turn onto a “one llama” road, an equally large tour bus approaches. An impossible yet miraculous dance ensues. After much maneuvering the two buses squeeze by with only bumps to the side-view mirrors. Moments later we meet a herd of cattle walking directly towards us. Unfazed, the cows, too, squeeze past us — peeing and pooping as they go. “Typical traffic jam,” Marco shouts from the front of the bus. Abruptly, the bus comes to a sudden halt. A young shepherd, just a boy, is moving his flock of sheep just ahead. I watch utterly amused as a newly born lamb runs to keep up with its mother as it tries to suckle. Too cute! On the other side of the bus, eight children run up with outstretched hands clamoring for candy. After what seems like hours, we make our way out of the village behind a very slow procession of bulls and oxen.
Gaining more elevation, the landscape, now drier and golden, transforms into open rangeland and fields of corn and grain. This could be Montana complete with snowcapped mountains. The light is golden, the sky is cerulean blue and dotted with big puffy clouds with wispy edges. Taking a deep breath with eyes closed, I send a telepathic snapshot of this beautiful landscape to Rick back home. |
Turning off the main road, which connects Urubamba to Cuzco via Chinchero, we travel along a dirt road to the Moray Circles. There is a magical moment when Apu Waykaywilkey, also known as Mount Veronica, comes into view. This mountain captures my heart. It is a pyramidal-shaped mountain that I am later told was named after a woman who was on the first successful climbing expedition to reach the summit. A romantic story.
In the Andean cosmology, Waykaywilkey is one of four principal holy mountains. The others are Ausangate, Salkantay and Pachatuson. Believed to be a “sacred doorway” to the Upper World, this mountain deity teaches how to live passionately without attachment. In other words, how to live unconditionally. Presently, we are told, Waykaywilkey is the most popular location to receive rites of passage in this medicine tradition. Staring out the bus window, I vow one day to return and make a pilgrimage to this magnificent holy mountain.
In the Andean cosmology, Waykaywilkey is one of four principal holy mountains. The others are Ausangate, Salkantay and Pachatuson. Believed to be a “sacred doorway” to the Upper World, this mountain deity teaches how to live passionately without attachment. In other words, how to live unconditionally. Presently, we are told, Waykaywilkey is the most popular location to receive rites of passage in this medicine tradition. Staring out the bus window, I vow one day to return and make a pilgrimage to this magnificent holy mountain.
The hills of the Chinchero Plateau are terraced with a patchwork of fields. In the Andes, humans as well as animals are employed as beasts of burden. This is harvest time, and due to the strike schools are closed. Brown-faced, chubby-cheeked children are everywhere tending animals and helping to stack and |
haul corn stalks that will be used to make adobe brick, provide feed for livestock, and burn as fuel.
Marco tells us, “Seventy percent of the people still farm the traditional way — using wooden picks, pitchforks and scythes.” Here on the Plateau the land is very fertile, with as many as three to four crops annually. Farmers grow 150 varieties of potatoes along with barley, oats and wheat. I had no idea there were more than a handful of varieties. |
Interestingly, agaves are used to delineate the boundaries of fields rather than fences. Eucalyptus trees, first introduced from the United States, grow profusely in a moist ravine. As our tour bus approaches the ravine, the relatively smooth dirt road becomes rough and bumpy, and narrows to barely one-lane wide. |
A short waterfall, outlined by a purple flowering plant, cascades on the left. Across the way a pre-Inka structure, dating back to 900 A.D., is still used for traditional ceremonies by residents of this region. In the cool lushness of the ravine I spot owls, a falcon and American kestrels.
Finally, the bus stops in front of a rectangular adobe structure. Tonight’s campsite is across the road in an field. At first it seems like an odd location, but the views of Waykaywilkey and Illa Waman are stunning. Besides, within the adobe are bathroom facilities, and to the right are the Moray Circles!
Finally, the bus stops in front of a rectangular adobe structure. Tonight’s campsite is across the road in an field. At first it seems like an odd location, but the views of Waykaywilkey and Illa Waman are stunning. Besides, within the adobe are bathroom facilities, and to the right are the Moray Circles!
This "Temple to the Feminine" is a series of large concentric circles that were carved out of the earth and carefully terraced. There are at least two large circular formations, and the largest is undergoing extensive restoration. It is believed these Inka constructions were used for agricultural experimentation since they replicate agricultural micro-climates found within the empire. |
Interestingly, while there are thirty-four (34) ecological zones worldwide, Peru itself has twenty-eight (28). Once restoration is complete, archaeologists and scientists will begin experiments to see if their hypothesis is confirmed.
Once our tents are set up, we slather up with sunscreen, fill our water bottles, and hike down into the circle. Surprisingly, it is much longer of a descent than it appears, and much hotter the deeper we go into the belly of the earth. Later, back at camp we meet in the dining tent for a briefing over hot mugs of matte de coca and snacks. Alberto begins by recounting the legend of Parsifal and his search for the Holy Grail or “cup” — a metaphor for becoming whole. In the Parsifal legend, this quest for wholeness is a masculine path to reclaim the feminine. We are told the word “Q’ero” means “cup” in Quechua, and as such, the Q’ero are the keepers of the “cup.” Further, unlike Euro-Christian mythology, the Q’ero never lost their “cup” or wholeness.
In Western culture, the masculine path is one of individuation, which necessitates the need to separate from the “Mother,” our feminine nature. Once that step has successfully been taken, we find ourselves needing to defeat the “Red Knight” — the bully aspect of our masculine nature. At this juncture, we are warned not to be seduced by or to seduce another, which is really a warning to remain faithful to our quest for wholeness that is never heeded. Instead, we are caught in the grip of the feminine ideal, represented in the myth as the meeting with “Blanche Fleur.” Not surprisingly, upon first meeting the “Fisher King” we forget the purpose of our search (wholeness) and instead find ourselves caught in the warrior archetype. This archetype signals an often long period of preparation — sometimes moving from place to place, job to job, spouse to spouse — before we are ready to find our way back to our original quest: the Grail: wholeness.
This Western cosmological map is based upon the belief of our having been “cast out of the Garden.” Indigenous people, like the Q’ero, subscribe to a different map — one that recognizes that this, our life on Earth, is the Garden. The difference between these two maps illustrates that there are two ways back to the “Grail” or wholeness. We can either take Parsifal’s long way or the Q’ero’s short way where wholeness is always available in every moment.
Next we learn about the Inka concept of “nuesta.” Archetypically, nuesta refers to powerful earth spirits. But much more than that, it signifies the union or joining together of dissimilar energies — masculine and feminine — to create relationship based on compassion and cooperation, rather than competition; in other words, embodying an impassionate way of being and simultaneously aligning one’s outward actions so there is congruence within and without. Upon hearing this my body begins to vibrate — this is what my vision in Cuzco was about!
Once our tents are set up, we slather up with sunscreen, fill our water bottles, and hike down into the circle. Surprisingly, it is much longer of a descent than it appears, and much hotter the deeper we go into the belly of the earth. Later, back at camp we meet in the dining tent for a briefing over hot mugs of matte de coca and snacks. Alberto begins by recounting the legend of Parsifal and his search for the Holy Grail or “cup” — a metaphor for becoming whole. In the Parsifal legend, this quest for wholeness is a masculine path to reclaim the feminine. We are told the word “Q’ero” means “cup” in Quechua, and as such, the Q’ero are the keepers of the “cup.” Further, unlike Euro-Christian mythology, the Q’ero never lost their “cup” or wholeness.
In Western culture, the masculine path is one of individuation, which necessitates the need to separate from the “Mother,” our feminine nature. Once that step has successfully been taken, we find ourselves needing to defeat the “Red Knight” — the bully aspect of our masculine nature. At this juncture, we are warned not to be seduced by or to seduce another, which is really a warning to remain faithful to our quest for wholeness that is never heeded. Instead, we are caught in the grip of the feminine ideal, represented in the myth as the meeting with “Blanche Fleur.” Not surprisingly, upon first meeting the “Fisher King” we forget the purpose of our search (wholeness) and instead find ourselves caught in the warrior archetype. This archetype signals an often long period of preparation — sometimes moving from place to place, job to job, spouse to spouse — before we are ready to find our way back to our original quest: the Grail: wholeness.
This Western cosmological map is based upon the belief of our having been “cast out of the Garden.” Indigenous people, like the Q’ero, subscribe to a different map — one that recognizes that this, our life on Earth, is the Garden. The difference between these two maps illustrates that there are two ways back to the “Grail” or wholeness. We can either take Parsifal’s long way or the Q’ero’s short way where wholeness is always available in every moment.
Next we learn about the Inka concept of “nuesta.” Archetypically, nuesta refers to powerful earth spirits. But much more than that, it signifies the union or joining together of dissimilar energies — masculine and feminine — to create relationship based on compassion and cooperation, rather than competition; in other words, embodying an impassionate way of being and simultaneously aligning one’s outward actions so there is congruence within and without. Upon hearing this my body begins to vibrate — this is what my vision in Cuzco was about!
After the workers leave for the day, I and the other women of our group walk single-file down into the center of the Temple of the Feminine to hold ceremony to reclaim our quintessential feminine nature. There is no script. The ceremony will organically grow out of our availability to experience. We are told to bring a flashlight and warm clothes because the temperature will drop dramatically when the sun sets. By the time we reach the innermost circle, many of us are wearing our jackets, gloves and hats. |
Arranging ourselves in a circle, Karina spreads a mestana cloth filled with coca leaves in the center and invites us to make a k’intu that carries our prayers to Pachamama (Mother Earth). Once done, we partially bury these so they are standing in a circle within our circle. Doña Berna tells us a story about her youth and her connection to the feminine, which Karina translates. Then doña Bernadina shares the story of her life. Soon others in our group begin to share. One by one the threads of our connection to the feminine are revealed. I, too, share my story. My thread contains sorrow, gratitude and joy — sorrow for losing my mother while still a baby, sorrow for the distance I created with my mother who raised me, gratefulness for the nurturing I received coming into adulthood from my mother-in-law, and the joy I feel in my heart for re-membering my connection to Pachamama, our eternal Mother, who never left me and always nurtures and sustains me. Some of the shared stories bring up sadness, pain, regret, loss, wounded-ness. Others celebrate the wonders and miracle of the feminine. Tears are shed. Laughter is shared. The threads we carry begin to weave an exquisite and sacred tapestry.
With incense, doña Berna goes around the circle cleansing each of our luminous energy fields. Referred to as the Wiracocha, the luminous energy field is made up of three layers of information or morphic fields that are not visible through ordinary perception. These fields lie between the physical body and, roughly, an arm’s length distance. Beyond the layer closest to the body contains information that is important to our physical body and connects through our llankay energy center located just above our belly button. The middle layer holds information pertaining to external events outside the physical body and connects through our munay or heart center. The furthermost layer from the body is associated with transcendental information and connects through our third eye or yachay energy center.
Next, doña Bernadina uses sweet grasses from Pachamama to cleanse our luminous energy fields. After the cleansing process is complete, we kneel in prayer position giving silent thanks to Pachamama, then with our foreheads to her belly. Emptying ourselves of hucha, the heavy energies of sadness and fear, we turn these over to the earth — our Eternal Mother — so that she can transform (michuy) these energies into “fertilizer” that will nourish the plant and animal worlds and, in turn, nurture us.
Someone suggests we lie on the ground, feet pointing in towards the center of the circle — bare belly to Mother Earth’s belly — to listen deeply for our unique tone that connects us to Pachamama. Lying on the cold ground I wonder at the possibility of connecting so deeply that I will hear her tone. Another woman’s earlier sharing that she “loves Pachamama so f*#king much” comes to mind like a multicolored banner of silk blowing in a gentle breeze. “Clear my mind,” I silently tell myself. With a deep breath, followed by another, and another, I find myself slipping between the particles of dirt, and sliding down the roots of grasses and weeds. Falling. Falling. Until there is only blackness. Then, I begin to hear the faint beat of the earth. Still farther down I travel. The sound becomes louder. Turning over, back to belly, the sound is deeper still, resonating between the ribs of my body. Without warning it works its way up into my throat, escaping through my lips. No longer can I hold the sound back.
One by one I become conscious of others toning their primordial sounds. Voices grow louder, deeper, and more passionate. Overlapping tones. Separate. One. The sound of us calling to our Mother, and our Mother answering back. Tears flow down my cheeks. I am home. I am in my body, and not. I am everywhere — deep within the earth and out beyond the stars. The sounds meld and become a hum, a part of a universe. The Universe. The sky is inky black with billions of stars twinkling overhead when our hum dissipates into silence.
Meanwhile, up at camp the men have been holding ceremony of their own, sharing stories about their connection with the feminine. In a single-file procession, their flashlights lead the way down to our circle. We are to welcome them. Again, there is no script. As the first of the men come down the terrace steps and approach, several of us walk over to greet them. Reaching out, I embrace one man and simply say, “Welcome, we’ve been waiting for you.” As more men join us, I repeat my greeting until each man has been welcomed. There are tears in some of the men’s eyes. Later, they share that they did not know whether they would be “welcomed.” So anchored in my feminine energy, I can’t imagine why they would not know that their masculine energy was needed to create ayni: the archetypal nuesta.
As a gift, the men have brought popcorn, which we eat, share and throw to Spirit in thanks. Watching it land on Pachamama’s belly I perceive it as food to feed more of her children. Mostly, we’re silent, our energy bodies becoming the cup — the Grail — that holds the higher energetic frequencies of wholeness.
In single-file procession we help each other up the large protruding stones, suspended out from the stone terrace walls, that serve as stairs. It takes nearly 40 minutes to make the long, slow, and mostly silent ascent to camp.
With incense, doña Berna goes around the circle cleansing each of our luminous energy fields. Referred to as the Wiracocha, the luminous energy field is made up of three layers of information or morphic fields that are not visible through ordinary perception. These fields lie between the physical body and, roughly, an arm’s length distance. Beyond the layer closest to the body contains information that is important to our physical body and connects through our llankay energy center located just above our belly button. The middle layer holds information pertaining to external events outside the physical body and connects through our munay or heart center. The furthermost layer from the body is associated with transcendental information and connects through our third eye or yachay energy center.
Next, doña Bernadina uses sweet grasses from Pachamama to cleanse our luminous energy fields. After the cleansing process is complete, we kneel in prayer position giving silent thanks to Pachamama, then with our foreheads to her belly. Emptying ourselves of hucha, the heavy energies of sadness and fear, we turn these over to the earth — our Eternal Mother — so that she can transform (michuy) these energies into “fertilizer” that will nourish the plant and animal worlds and, in turn, nurture us.
Someone suggests we lie on the ground, feet pointing in towards the center of the circle — bare belly to Mother Earth’s belly — to listen deeply for our unique tone that connects us to Pachamama. Lying on the cold ground I wonder at the possibility of connecting so deeply that I will hear her tone. Another woman’s earlier sharing that she “loves Pachamama so f*#king much” comes to mind like a multicolored banner of silk blowing in a gentle breeze. “Clear my mind,” I silently tell myself. With a deep breath, followed by another, and another, I find myself slipping between the particles of dirt, and sliding down the roots of grasses and weeds. Falling. Falling. Until there is only blackness. Then, I begin to hear the faint beat of the earth. Still farther down I travel. The sound becomes louder. Turning over, back to belly, the sound is deeper still, resonating between the ribs of my body. Without warning it works its way up into my throat, escaping through my lips. No longer can I hold the sound back.
One by one I become conscious of others toning their primordial sounds. Voices grow louder, deeper, and more passionate. Overlapping tones. Separate. One. The sound of us calling to our Mother, and our Mother answering back. Tears flow down my cheeks. I am home. I am in my body, and not. I am everywhere — deep within the earth and out beyond the stars. The sounds meld and become a hum, a part of a universe. The Universe. The sky is inky black with billions of stars twinkling overhead when our hum dissipates into silence.
Meanwhile, up at camp the men have been holding ceremony of their own, sharing stories about their connection with the feminine. In a single-file procession, their flashlights lead the way down to our circle. We are to welcome them. Again, there is no script. As the first of the men come down the terrace steps and approach, several of us walk over to greet them. Reaching out, I embrace one man and simply say, “Welcome, we’ve been waiting for you.” As more men join us, I repeat my greeting until each man has been welcomed. There are tears in some of the men’s eyes. Later, they share that they did not know whether they would be “welcomed.” So anchored in my feminine energy, I can’t imagine why they would not know that their masculine energy was needed to create ayni: the archetypal nuesta.
As a gift, the men have brought popcorn, which we eat, share and throw to Spirit in thanks. Watching it land on Pachamama’s belly I perceive it as food to feed more of her children. Mostly, we’re silent, our energy bodies becoming the cup — the Grail — that holds the higher energetic frequencies of wholeness.
In single-file procession we help each other up the large protruding stones, suspended out from the stone terrace walls, that serve as stairs. It takes nearly 40 minutes to make the long, slow, and mostly silent ascent to camp.
Looking back from the top, we are a continuous serpentine thread of light. Beautiful. The Southern Cross is prominent in the blackened sky as is the archetype Amaru, the great serpent, which is seen in night skies as the Milky Way. Looking up I hear myself whisper in gratitude, “Another perfect day.” The cooks have been busy. Dinner is waiting to be served. Afterwards, we gather for fire ceremony. It is a beautiful ceremony. The threads that have begun to form our allyu’s tapestry are strong. The energy is charged in a way that only hours ago did not exist. |
Our voices are strong. With warrior-like fierceness we hold sacred space for each other — defying any unfriendly spirit that may try to do our brothers or sisters harm.
Those of us with despachos to burn do so after the ceremony. Turning my back to the flames, consumed by fire, the energy held in the k’intus within our despachos transform into more refined expressions of being.
Those of us with despachos to burn do so after the ceremony. Turning my back to the flames, consumed by fire, the energy held in the k’intus within our despachos transform into more refined expressions of being.