Mystery Road

* this entry from 4/28 and yesterday :) *
Mystery Road, Macchu Picchu

Jeans in a neat rectangle, next to the small day pack – the expedition team tucked inside. Hiking boots and socks awaiting feet. I scan the room while stretching from slumber. The sun is peeking through the curtains.

I bolt upright, throw sheets off and run to the window pulling the curtains wide with two hands. Totta is open – the ribbed door pulled up, white frosted cakes line its walls. Totta should not be open.

*

She shrugs her shoulders, shakes her head and looks down at my ticket and back to her computer screen. "Sorry, there are no more departures from here today. You missed the train."

She looks at her partner, seated behind a glass partition. He’s pointing at a piece of paper with a pen, speaking in English to a couple seated before him.

She leans closer, her navy blue suit touches the desk. "But there is an alternative route."

*

A cab stand on avenue Hua%&? where eager drivers are clumped on curbs – here a collectivo cab is negotiated to drive some90kms outside of town to a train station called Ollanta where it’s possible to catch the missed train from Cuzco at noon.

In the company of briefcase man, red-sweater woman, newspaper man, and a paint bucket of gasoline that sloshes and rolls, the cab makes its way past squares of tilled soil, dreadlocked donkeys, and women carrying babies on their backs in striped blankets the color of lifesavers.

An hour and a half later, the cab drives through a dusty central square and down a dirt road stopping at the Ollanta station. And a moment later, I'm seated near a window, the train's wheels rolling along the tracks -- destination Macchu Picchu. A slight detour that led back to the original route.


*

It’s dark when I open my eyes. Raindrops upon tin roofs, a cool draft swirls as I kick off the wool cover.

Downstairs, I leave the key with a note:
Hello, checking out – room 203. Left a bag under desk, will return. Much Thank You. Sorry, my Spanish no is good.

The trail to Macchu Picchu is approx 6km. Yesterday, I asked two gentlemen pushing a wheel barrow where the starting point was, asked them what time the sun rises. They motioned their hands the way a snake moves. Over a bridge, stay to the right, go up for about 2hrs, the sun rises at six, six thirty.

The small town of Aguas Calientes is bathed in a jack-o-lantern glow, its cobblestone streets slick and shiny. Past alleys, a plaza, and closed restaurants, down hill, through a dirt lot, rectangular busses lined like dominoes, their headlights off, seats barren. A black dog, the color of shadows, follows me. At this hour, he appears like a ghost, blending in with the darkness. It’s not long before the dog disappears, before the lights of town disappear and the path turns the shade of the night. It makes my stomach lurch and a voice inside says “turn back”. So I do.

Rather than take the footpath, I take the faster one -- by bus. It’s mentioned, “whichever one you decide on, they both go to the same place.”

*

Low clouds drift over the green pillars of the Andes, Macchu Picchu fading into and out of view like a reflection on moving water. My feet follow the curves of a road, a road chosen at a fork, chosen simply because there wasn’t a line of people blocking it.


Clouds spill onto the Vilcanota peaks like steam off hot coffee

The road ascends, up stone staircases, past viewpoints with no views, the sky blanketed in a thick sheet of white. I’m not sure what it is I should be looking for, where this road is going, so I start taking photos of flowers, the dew drops on spider webs.









It’s been an hour.

It’s been two hours.

The road hasn’t revealed its destination.

At nearly 3 hours, two girls are seen sitting on stone stairs. They are the first people I’ve come across. While eating cookies and drinking water we talk about Chile, about Torres Del Paine, we a laugh at how long we’ve walked, at how we had no clue how long the road would be. “I think it goes much further up,” one says. “We’re turning back. What are you going to do?”

“Keep going, just to see what’s around the corner.”

Around the corner is a new set of stairs. Maybe the destination is just after those stairs. This pattern continues. The maybes, the what-ifs, the probably-almost-theres.


views

New stair upon new stair.


Alas a gateway. This must be the entrance to the destination. I touch the cold stones, examine the flaky lichen, and take pictures to celebrate the arrival.


Nope, more stairs.


The top, what joy! A granite stone extends into the sky like a dull arrow.


Not quite. A new set of stairs lies hidden around the corner.


..and some more



Up and further up.

Until, finally, the road, the stairs stop.

A thin walkway, dizzying views of green slopes to either side. Clouds like cotton candy being stretched. A panorama of Andean Peaks, jutting upward as though they’re fingers reaching out to the universe. And this really amazing flower.







*


Mystery Road, Macchu Picchu





...at the moment, Cafe Don Estaban
On my way to the bathroom, it said "hello" -- the it being an orange and brown cake on display. It reminded me of Thanksgiving so I requested a slice. Here on the loft, amid a row of wooden tables and chairs, cake and hot chammomile tea. The lyrics of song I'm listening to just mentioned, "easy like Sunday Morning" -- pretty much sums up how it feels right now. Cheers.