Machu Picchu and Pisco Sours
Yep, that’s me doing the iconic tourist shot of Machu Picchu. (You have no idea how many tries it took this professional photographer to actually get it right!)
I’m sitting in a courtyard 11,000 feet up in the mountains. Breathing is difficult, especially since our tour guide pressed us to climb even higher into the Andes to see the impressive stonework of Incan ruins. I’ve sucked in several minutes of hotel oxygen, provided in the lobby. And I’ve downed cups and cups of coca and mint teas to combat altitude sickness. Every website warns against alcohol consumption.
I order a drink.
It’s a Pisco sour, the acclaimed national drink of Peru. I order a second for my 90-year-old traveling companion who’s paying for this expedition. Together we sit wrapped in alpaca wool blankets next to a roaring fake fire.
Phase One of our grand adventure complete. ✓
The hostess set me up in the center courtyard of the Palacio del Inka hotel for two outstanding dinners.
After trekking higher into the Andes mountain range, we actually went lower to visit Machu Picchu. It almost seems impossible, but the 15th-century Inca citadel is more than 3,000 feet below where we’re sitting right now in Cusco, Peru. Thank God, too, because with all the climbing and trekking our group was doing, that extra oxygen really helped!
I’ve written a companion piece about what it actually took to get to Machu Picchu. It was an expedition in its own right — combining van rides, train rides, long lines and a few busses up and down precarious roads that had me staring far out over deep valleys with nary a guardrail between my unease and the river a thousand feet below my window.
The precision stonework is apparent all across Machu Picchu, from the areas where royalty stayed, to the less finished commoner’s areas.
“The Lost City of the Incas,” as it’s sometimes called, Machu Picchu is iconic, breathtaking (literally) and mysterious. Our guide tells us only 500 people lived there at its peak. I think 500 people must’ve rode up the mountain in my bus today. But that small number of residents is simply astounding, considering the built out area in Machu Picchu is about one million square feet.
Tourists walk among the terraced farming landscapes.
Incan royalty and commoners lived there for maybe around 100 years or so — terrace farming, worshipping entities, animals and celestial bodies. But not a lot else is known about the site that was re-discovered a little over a hundred years ago by a Yale University Professor, Hiram Brigham. Perhaps it was a royal retreat or an astronomical observatory, some speculate.
I can understand why Incan royalty chose this spot; it’s majestic.
There’s no concrete explanation for why it was abandoned either; small pox? drought? Spanish conquistadors terrorizing other parts of the Incan Empire?
We abandoned it ourselves after a few hours because we still had a bus, train and van to catch. And those Pisco sours weren’t gonna drink themselves.
I liked the way Machu Picchu’s iconic shot was reflected in one our group member’s shades.
We also had to pick up my traveling companion — my dad’s cousin — who made it to the first promontory, then sat in a little stone hut overlooking the whole complex while we climbed and hiked the grounds.
Constructing and completing the exacting lines and scrupulous stonework would be a feat even with today’s technology.
Our guide finished pointing out the incredible stone architecture, painstakingly put together with no mortar in between the massive carved rocks. My dad’s cousin — or “Cuz” as we call each other — sat in the last one waiting for us. 90 is a tough age for scampering about ancient ruins. He was content to read old New Yorker magazines and look out over the mystery city. If he’d moved into Machu Picchu at birth, he’d be moving out all in one lifetime. That’s how short of a time it was inhabited.
Confit of Guinea Pig? Alpaca Parmesano? Sólo di que no! (Just Say No)
Back at our courtyard dinner, we decide against guinea pig or alpaca from the menu. We’re both adventurous travelers, not so much eaters. And there’s a chance my childhood pet Squeaky would be staring down at me from guinea pig heaven, wordlessly willing me to try the pizza instead.
And even though alpaca was called the fiber of the gods, I’m assuming it was for their wool and not their laxative properties.
As if to confirm the obvious, a baby alpaca wandered up to our table earlier, startling my cousin who exclaimed, “What the hell is THAT!?”
THAT was a warning I think, Cuz. (Or an appetizer)
Man, those Sisco Powers hit ya hard at high altitude and low oxen.
UP NEXT, Ecuador, The Equator and The Galápagos!
My traveling companion and colorful alpaca fiber woven into beautiful craftwork.
Rodney Curtis is a recovering journalist and author of four books.
You are hitting all the marks if you manage to speculate AND drink at altitude!
Ha ha, that’s EXCELLENT!
Outstanding–vintage Rodney Curtis! You take me with you here. Thank you.
Thank you, Doc. Palmer! I like the thought of a vintage me. And hey, I spotted some vintage Palmer when a yellow leave was stuck to my car recently. I looked around, but no one could tell me who to pay.