Pisac, Peru: Don't Be Lazy (cont.)

I only had a spot of clear vision; I could only see the potion in his hands, a slim, rectangular bottle, corked, with a fiber cord wrapped around the neck. He filled my hands with an emerald green liquid that wafted the scent of medicine.

"Rub your hands together. Close your eyes. And breathe deeply from your hands."

In my delirium I suspected that he had filled my hands with chloroform, and I'd render myself unconscious. Good bye camera. I peeked through a slit between my eyelids and sniffed, gently at first. But the scent was invigorating. Mind clearing. I took as deep a breath as I could. The potion filled my lungs with mint.

"Put these leaves in your mouth but don't chew them yet." I recognized the coca leaves from my morning tea. I trusted him and did as ordered. He said something in Quechua, not to me. "Now close your eyes again. Ask Inti to help you climb the mountain."

"Inti, help me climb the mountain!"

"Open your eyes." He clapped his hands and was gone down the path before I could thank him, but I felt strong enough to continue. I chewed the leaves slowly to take my mind off of my thirst. Switchback after switchback followed until the warden's tower stood above me, atop a flight of steep stone steps. I made a final push, always keeping three points of contact—two hands and a foot—upon the stairs. When I reached the tower, I realized there was much more to the ruins. There lay before me a city of rose-colored stone. Dozens of buildings, an aqueduct, and terraces up and down the mountain. And tourists mulling through the buildings. I trudged over to the aqueduct and splashed my head with cold water. Filling my Inca Cola bottle, I drank. Thirst overwhelmed concern of bacterial infection. I spun around and drank in the spectacular view, far below the artisan market, the river Urubamba, and the rest of the Valle Sagrado.

I poked around the ruins as my body slowly rejuvenated. Strength drawn from perfectly fitted trapezoidal stone constructed walls, one-half-meter thick.  Their lines deliberately compliment the shape of the surrounding mountains, with a bases wider than their peaks. The sublime stood beyond these walls, hyper-green mountains, with their contours and topography plotted by terraces still in use. Crops sustained in the thin air at the limits of human habitation. I sat on a grassy plot beneath three alcoves set in a wall wondering what treasure they once contained.    

The sound of Australian-accented English approached from around the corner along with its three speakers and, for the moment, shattered my awe. The young men entered the building without noticing me, their focus on a flight of stairs leading higher up the mountain.

“Hey guys, do you mind if I ask you a stupid question?” my voice momentarily startled them.

“Go on,” one of them said.

“How did you all get up here?”

They looked at each other, agreeing it had been a stupid question. “There’s a bus—a great number of them—bringing people to the top, just over there. Did you walk or something?”

Something like that.

I slowly followed in the Australians' direction, up a knoll, and at its highest point turned. I entered this final vista. I thanked Inti for his help in my ascent, and he shone his rays upon me for a moment before slipping behind the clouds to rest, himself.  Gravity helped me complete the trail to a lot filled with vans and taxis. I removed the Inca cross from my pocket. With a feeling of completion, I touched the point representing ama qilla and then fastened it around my neck.
Please don’t think me lazy for catching a ride down the mountain. 

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