To Shake the Sleeping Self

by Jedidiah Jenkins

  The night before we left, we picked a seafood restaurant and enjoyed a big dinner together. Jordan, ever the experience creator, had asked us each to bring a Hafiz poem to read aloud. We drank our wine and prepped ourselves for the hike of our lives with poetry from the Persian mystic.

  I read one of my favorites.

  Even after all this time,

  The Sun never says to the Earth,

  you owe me,

  look what happens with a love like that,

  it lights the whole world.

  My friends said, “Read it again!” I did, delighting in its simplicity. Everyone had it memorized by the time the second reading was over. The poem felt so true, it came into the mind and sat down in a chair that had always been there, empty and waiting.

  Then we headed to our respective beds to get ready and deal with our headaches. All the hostels and hotels served coca tea in the lobby. This was tea made from coca leaves, the same plant from which cocaine is made. Inca royalty, though not the common folk, chewed coca often because it helped with headaches and gives you energy. When the Incan empire fell, the rest of the Andean world took up the habit.

  As I went to bed, the thought of seeing the famous Inca holy city with my own eyes seized me like electricity. Here in the highlands, the evidence of an astonishing convergence of culture and religion was all around—the Spanish architecture beautifully folded into the Inca architecture, the Quechua people in the same breath talking earnestly about Pachamama (the earth mother goddess of the Inca) and Mother Mary. A bizarre unity of conquered and conquerors.

  I kept drifting back to what I’d read in The Conquest of the Incas. How Pope Alexander VI granted rights to the king of Spain to conquer this part of the Americas and take all the gold he could on the condition that the Indians were given a chance to convert to Christianity.

  About November 16, 1532, the Inca king first heard the name of Jesus. On that same day, the conquistadors put his kingdom to the sword. Jesus saves. But you gotta accept Him real quick or He kills.

  * * *

  —

  AS USUAL, I had repacked the night before, then in the morning double-checked each pocket. This is how it always goes. My absentmindedness causes me to second-guess everything. The trekking company had given us duffel bags for our belongings, which our porters would load onto mules. My bag was full of jackets and shirts for layers. We’d carry just day packs. The nights at Cusco’s elevation were already cold, but we would be hiking up another 4,000 feet to our first camping spot, where snow was said to be common. Oh my. Weston would’ve hated that.

  The van came just before sunrise. We waited for it in the lobby and drank coca tea. The earthy taste had grown on me. Or maybe it was the cocaine in it. I refilled freely, and it really did help my headaches.

  We came out lugging our stuff. Valentin introduced himself as our guide. He had a handsome Andean face, chiseled out of brown leather. We were all bundled up for the cold. When we moved, our limbs made that distinctive swoosh sound that comes from puffy down jackets. Valentin knew it was his job to set the tone for all the grumpy gringos. As we climbed in, he said, “We have a two-hour drive. Napping now is allowed.” As if on cue, Jordan, Cyrus, and I fell asleep leaning on each other.

  We woke up high on a mountain road with Valentin staring back at us from the front passenger seat. “Good morning, sunshines!” he said. “We are almost there!” His accent was thick, but he had obviously spent a lot of time around English-speakers.

  The van drove into a wide valley, white-capped mountains high above us, green grass spreading away from the road and turning gold at the higher, rockier elevations. We saw boulders piled together as if on purpose, but this was the work of glaciers. A clear stream divided the treeless valley, looking like a snake on a golf course. By now everyone in the van was awake and chatting.

  At the road’s end—where the stream was born from the snowline and the trail began—porters and mules awaited, and breakfast was ready. The whole arrangement felt very nineteenth-century colonialist. Hiring local people to carry my bags, cook for me, set up my tent. I had even broached this topic with my Christian host family the week before, but they assured me that trekking with porters provided excellent jobs for these men. One of the best in the region. And while the hike would be a challenge for a typical Westerner, it was more of a stroll for a Quechua man.

  Valentin introduced us to the porters, and their wide smiling faces and squinting eyes were kind but seemed otherworldly. How can I describe this? There is a light that we recognize in the eyes of someone with whom we would say we “connect.” This means we have life experience in common. Or culture perhaps. Subtle movements of their eyes, the way they glance around the room, the way they furrow their brow, you can tell so much about a person. We are unaware that our culture teaches us ways to hold our face. But these Quechua men, tanned, with deep wrinkles carved by the sun, circular bone structure and short stature, they looked at me with a smile and smiling eyes, but no connection beyond that. I know they had a deep communication among one another, and over the next few days I watched them joke and laugh among themselves, but with the language in our eyes, our cheeks, our eyebrows, we said very little to each other. It made me feel strange.

  Valentin seemed to sense what we were thinking and feeling. He told us again that working as porters on these treks was an excellent job for them. And right in line with their heritage. “In the time of the Inca, all messages were transmitted orally by messengers,” he said. “Meaning men would run from Cusco to Quito, Ecuador, in relay fashion, to communicate between the kings. Through the most treacherous stretches of the Andean mountains, a thousand miles. These are their descendants. They are at home in these mountains, at these altitudes. Where you will be sweating and needing oxygen, they won’t think of it at all.”

  It still felt weird, even with all this assurance. As our porters set out breakfast, I resolved to be the most thankful, outwardly grateful hiker they’d ever met. I probably insulted them with my groveling and white guilt, but I didn’t want them thinking I was some conquistador.

  Hemming’s book on the conquest had told me what that looked like, and left me shaken. The whole bloody history felt much more recent down here than I’d imagined. I had written down my own summary, to process it, I guess. To feel it.

  The Spanish conquistador Fernando Pizarro had heard rumors in Panama of a vast kingdom somewhere in the mountains of the southern continent. He wanted to become as famous and wealthy as Cortés, who had conquered the Aztecs in Mexico ten years earlier. After two failed attempts to find the fabled kingdom, Pizarro would not let his destiny evade him. He tried one more time, traveling south from the coast of present-day Ecuador with a band of just 168 men—62 horsemen and 106 foot soldiers. Plus a priest, as required by the Pope.

  Along the way, Pizarro captured locals as translators and guides, and a story began to develop. There was, indeed, a massive civilization ahead. With hundreds of thousands of people, maybe millions. With a king, Atahualpa, a god on earth who was descended straight from the sun, and who had just defeated his brother in a brutal war of succession. Their father had died of a mysterious disease that was now sweeping through the empire, killing thousands.

  After weeks of marching south and west, up into the uncharted mountains, Pizarro had reached Atahualpa. He set up a base in an Incan stone fort at Cajamarca, near where the king was said to be camped. From there, Pizarro sent a messenger on horseback to ask the Incan god to meet.

  Pizarro had a problem. Atahualpa traveled with an army of 80,000 soldiers. The Spaniard had no chance of overpowering the king, with his 162 men. Ha!

  But he had a plan. He would do what Cortés had done in Mexico. Use the natives’ ignorance against them. They’d likely accept a meeting. The strangeness of Spanish skin and horses and technology would lure the king in. And there, Pizarro would k
idnap him. Then he would use Atahualpa’s followers’ religious devotion to bring the empire to its knees.

  After a simple and delicious breakfast, Valentin called us into a circle. “I want to welcome you all to the holy Salkantay trek,” he said. “This is a trail used by the Inca hundreds of years ago, and it was a sacred walk. I will explain to you many things about this trail. Before we leave, let us say a prayer to God. Please hold hands.”

  I was surprised. If this request had come from an American guide, some of our group might have respectfully declined. But coming from a Quechua man, in such a mystical place, no one hesitated.

  “Holy Father, we ask that you keep us safe. This trek can be difficult, and we ask for safety, for guidance, for protection. Give these tourists a good experience, and bless them. Let the spirit of Pachamama shine into us as we walk. And let them know that even though it’s hard, it’s not that hard. They are not babies. In Jesus’ name I pray, Amen.”

  Valentin smiled. We were happier for the prayer. I wasn’t exactly sure who Pachamama was, but I was going to ask. We set off up the mountain. It was not yet 8 a.m.

  Atahualpa was traveling with his army to Cusco to sit on his newly won throne. As he went, he drank from the skull of one of his brother’s generals. Well, the whole head. They had dried the severed head, with skin and hair intact, and fastened a golden bowl to the crown of the skull. They put a spigot through the top and out the mouth. From this, he drank. This was his favorite chalice.

  He received the invitation from Pizarro. He did not fear the newcomers; how could he? He was a god. He was curious, so he sent spies to investigate the pale-skinned aliens.

  The spies reported that the aliens rode on strange, giant creatures. Some thought they were half man, half beast.

  But these Christians posed no real threat. They were too few. Too weak. Atahualpa accepted the meeting.

  Our porters charged up the mountain and out of sight before the rest of us had ascended a hundred feet. Jordan was visibly troubled by the social divide.

  “I think using porters is economic slavery,” he said, hiking beside me.

  “Why? Valentin said it was a good job for them.”

  “They don’t have an option. You or I wouldn’t do that job. They see white tourists as other than them, as magical aliens with money and leisure. As superior. It’s slavery.”

  “You’re so punk rock,” I said.

  “The world is messed up. But I’m not gonna let it ruin me. We just have to be respectful.”

  The Peruvian Andes were all around us now. They were the most dramatic mountains I’d ever seen. The absence of trees gave them a naked beauty. The quality of light in the thin air brought out a saturated richness to the green of the grass, to the yellow of the flowers, to the gray of the rocks. Salkantay stood high above the trail, completely, brilliantly white. As we climbed, the grassy meadow gave way to piles of rocks. The stream below became water tumbling over boulders. We crawled up and up, reaching for rocks that looked like giant steps for gods. Jackie already had her can of oxygen up to her mouth. It looked like a Febreze can, but with a mouth cup on it. The visual made me laugh, even though I hardly had enough breath for the next step.

  Meanwhile, Valentin took side trips among the boulders, collecting purple and yellow flowers into a thick bouquet.

  After three hours of almost vertical gain, we reached the pass, Incachiriasca. The plants had all but disappeared now, and we walked over dark gray stones, sharp from falling off the mountain peaks high above. Patches of snow lurked in the sunless places beside boulders. Salkantay was directly above us like a white tidal wave. At the pass, Valentin knelt in a space protected by giant stones and carefully laid his flowers on the ground in the shape of a heart. Then he asked us to gather in a circle. This was a ceremony of gratitude, he said. He told us that we should give thanks to Pachamama. We should thank our parents for bringing us into the world. Thank the oxygen in our lungs. Thank the journey of our life, no matter how hard.

  We tried to follow his advice, but the air was so thin, we were so tired, the scenery so ridiculous, that some of us were in tears.

  Meanwhile, he told us about Pachamama. For the Quechua, she is the goddess of the mountain, of the earth. She brings fertility and prosperity. She is nature, and she gets upset when people abuse the earth. “The Quechua people pray to her often,” he said, then added, “She is the Virgin Mary, also.”

  From there, we began our descent, dropping into a mossy green valley with snow-covered mountains on either side. As we walked, Valentin kept up his narration.

  “Salkantay Mountain is over twenty thousand feet high, or over six thousand meters. Its name comes from Quechua, meaning ‘savage and wild.’ This mountain was very important to the Inca. This trail we are on as well as the Inca Trail were used as a route of travel to Machu Picchu from Cusco. You are very smart people for choosing Salkantay over the Inca Trail. That one is too crowded. Like big-city traffic. Like in America. This is much nicer. And better views.”

  I asked Valentin to tell us about the worst group he’d ever led, but he demurred. “Oh, I don’t like to say worst. I did have a group of Russians who hired five extra porters just to carry their vodka and cigarettes. And they made it! Coughing and cussing all day. I had a couple in their mid-seventies last year come, they were from Alaska, and they were faster than me. I found out they were mountain climbers. They amazed me. Last week we had some newlyweds. This was their honeymoon. Some people should not marry. They fought the whole hike. By the third day, they stopped talking to each other.”

  We hiked from sunrise to sundown that day, taking breaks for coca tea and for lunch. We saw wild chinchillas in the rocks. We saw a local man, older than time, sitting in a stone hut, smoking something, and selling handmade beaded tassels. We each bought one. How do you say no to an old man in a stone shack selling crafts?

  When we arrived at camp, our tents were already up and dinner was ready. We ate and cheersed, proud of ourselves, then we slept like happy babies.

  Each day of hiking felt like a little life all its own. The first day was the pass, snow all around, transitioning into a beautiful valley of tiny wild flowers.

  The second was following a snowmelt creek down to scattered trees and more humans. We passed a few stone homes, built into the ground. Smoke came from a chimney. I asked Valentin how people lived out here when there were no roads.

  “This community is about thirty people,” he explained. “The children walk two hours each morning to school, and two hours back. The government is trying to build roads and a bus. But for these children, it will be a long time.”

  The third was a descent into forest. As the air gained oxygen, plant life flourished and the temperature soared. We stripped off our coats and wore tank tops.

  That was the day one of the girls got diarrhea and started throwing up. Then it hit Jordan. They walked like zombies, sneaking behind trees and boulders to erupt from both ends. Remarkably, they somehow stayed in good spirits, unwilling to let sickness taint a once-in-a-lifetime experience.

  We played the “actor game” for miles and miles. This is where you say a movie, then I say an actor in that movie, then you say another movie that actor was in, then you say another actor in the new movie, and the chain continues until someone is stumped. Annabelle’s movie knowledge made her impossible to beat.

  At the crest of a hill, we broke out of the trees and saw the landscape in its grandeur for the first time. The Urubamba River had cut through these mountains in an absurd zigzag, leaving the ridges with dozens of spires like crocodile teeth. On this crest we came upon our first real Inca ruins—a roofless maze of stone rooms, the stones giant and perfectly cut. We sat in one of the rooms while Valentin taught us how to braid grass into a curiously strong rope. Then he pointed through the doorway to a distant ridge. “This is our first glimpse of Machu Picchu.”<
br />
  There, on top of a green ridge in the blue-green haze of distance, we could see a gray discoloration. The famous city on a hill. My stomach jumped with delight. We all whooped and hollered.

  The next stretch of trail descended in a series of muddy switchbacks, dropping through coffee farms and huts down to the river below. Soon, the terrain was all jungle. Splashing streams of snowmelt had become cascading waterfalls. Roots of trees that protruded into the zigzagging trail served as handholds. We stopped at a little coffee farm, really just a woman’s house with coffee plants all around it, and had some coffee in her kitchen. We stood around like white invaders, sipping her delicious earthy brew and watching the guinea pigs that roamed around her feet, eating random pieces of lettuce.

  Servants carried their god Atahualpa into the courtyard of the Spaniard’s fort on a litter—one of those lifted thrones—carried by eighty men. The litter was adorned with parrot feathers, gold, and silver. Behind it came two other litters and two hammocks. In them were other high-ranking members of Atahualpa’s inner circle. Around and behind them walked many more men in ornate parrot-feather headdresses. Some six thousand soldiers crammed into the courtyard and those who couldn’t fit stood guard outside.