She had put me on a train bound for Aguas Calientes, Machu Picchu’s lifeline in the valley, and told to be ready for the most moving experience of my life.
I had laughed to myself at the time, thinking Rhea’s mother-earth-hugging ways were endearing, but totally ridiculous—until the clouds blew away and sunshine rained down like gold on the sacred city. When I focused my eyes for the first time on the venerated village spilling over a peak so high it sat above the cloud bank, it stole my breath away.
I had prepared myself for a great architectural feat, like the pyramids or the Parthenon. This city, given its age and location was a wonder of the world, and would have been impossible to build even with modern technology. A fact that gave rise to myths that Machu Picchu had been built with help from extraterrestrials.
Almost . I thought to myself, as a tour guide discussed the false rumor. No one would have believed me if I told them this city was so amazing because it was home to the last remaining son of Sun—a god, not an alien.
A vast and intricate city terraced down great green slopes. Nearly a hundred workers bent to the task of caring for its immaculate grounds just as the Incas had centuries before. Spanning nearly five square miles of mountaintops, the retreat in the clouds harmonized so perfectly with the virginal terrain it looked as if it had been birthed from the same colossal collision that formed the Andes millennia ago.
Thick stone walls, grey and weathered with age, marched straight as pins in squared rows. Symmetrical buildings, clustered by size, lined streets of grass so green I could have been in Ireland.
Agrarian terraces formed a semi circle around the city, falling off the side of the mountain, stone wall after stone wall, each one lower on the mountain slope than the one before it—giving a home to life sustaining crops of potatoes and corn. The grey walls just as precise as the ones in the city, interrupted only by vibrant grass and vegetation kept green a the near constant sprinkle of afternoon rains.
The grey stone looked velvety to the eye, worn and weathered like river rock. Dotted among the incessantly green foliage grazed a flock of black and brown llamas—the only inhabitants to survived whatever force wiped out the humans. Breathtakingly beautiful in its simplicity, I was not the only one who stopped, gaping at yet another awesome vista, every time the tour guide scooted us along to another spot.
No wonder this was where the son of the sun chose to live. I couldn’t imagine a place more resplendent or closer to his creator. And yet the mountain did seem to breathe beneath my feet, just as Rhea had said. There was a secret hiding in those ruins. A secret I knew, but one that only cast the average unsuspecting tourist into a deep and lulling peace that radiated through the body so forcefully it made your bones hum. It was a sacred place. Once home to the gods.
Serenity swam in the air, every lungful washing the cares of the world away. The city’s only neighbors were cumulous clouds and towering mountain peaks, adding to its seclusion. Despite the enormous crowd that toured the area everyday, and the one resort located near the entrance, the place was quiet, allowing nature’s symphony of birds and gentle breezes to fill the ears. Everyone talked in hushed whispers like they had discovered some secret they didn’t want to share, or feared their voices would break the trance and the dream they had stumbled into might disappear.
On the highest mound of the city, perched so precariously on the slope that it almost seemed to hover above the unseen valley on its own, sat a temple. Great walls rose up to meet the sun, and when the small square windows caught the light just right, sunshine bathed the temple’s interior with warm golden light.
“The Temple of the Sun,” our tour guide announced with great pride and mysticism in his voice. “This is where the Inca worshipped the
I had laughed to myself at the time, thinking Rhea’s mother-earth-hugging ways were endearing, but totally ridiculous—until the clouds blew away and sunshine rained down like gold on the sacred city. When I focused my eyes for the first time on the venerated village spilling over a peak so high it sat above the cloud bank, it stole my breath away.
I had prepared myself for a great architectural feat, like the pyramids or the Parthenon. This city, given its age and location was a wonder of the world, and would have been impossible to build even with modern technology. A fact that gave rise to myths that Machu Picchu had been built with help from extraterrestrials.
Almost . I thought to myself, as a tour guide discussed the false rumor. No one would have believed me if I told them this city was so amazing because it was home to the last remaining son of Sun—a god, not an alien.
A vast and intricate city terraced down great green slopes. Nearly a hundred workers bent to the task of caring for its immaculate grounds just as the Incas had centuries before. Spanning nearly five square miles of mountaintops, the retreat in the clouds harmonized so perfectly with the virginal terrain it looked as if it had been birthed from the same colossal collision that formed the Andes millennia ago.
Thick stone walls, grey and weathered with age, marched straight as pins in squared rows. Symmetrical buildings, clustered by size, lined streets of grass so green I could have been in Ireland.
Agrarian terraces formed a semi circle around the city, falling off the side of the mountain, stone wall after stone wall, each one lower on the mountain slope than the one before it—giving a home to life sustaining crops of potatoes and corn. The grey walls just as precise as the ones in the city, interrupted only by vibrant grass and vegetation kept green a the near constant sprinkle of afternoon rains.
The grey stone looked velvety to the eye, worn and weathered like river rock. Dotted among the incessantly green foliage grazed a flock of black and brown llamas—the only inhabitants to survived whatever force wiped out the humans. Breathtakingly beautiful in its simplicity, I was not the only one who stopped, gaping at yet another awesome vista, every time the tour guide scooted us along to another spot.
No wonder this was where the son of the sun chose to live. I couldn’t imagine a place more resplendent or closer to his creator. And yet the mountain did seem to breathe beneath my feet, just as Rhea had said. There was a secret hiding in those ruins. A secret I knew, but one that only cast the average unsuspecting tourist into a deep and lulling peace that radiated through the body so forcefully it made your bones hum. It was a sacred place. Once home to the gods.
Serenity swam in the air, every lungful washing the cares of the world away. The city’s only neighbors were cumulous clouds and towering mountain peaks, adding to its seclusion. Despite the enormous crowd that toured the area everyday, and the one resort located near the entrance, the place was quiet, allowing nature’s symphony of birds and gentle breezes to fill the ears. Everyone talked in hushed whispers like they had discovered some secret they didn’t want to share, or feared their voices would break the trance and the dream they had stumbled into might disappear.
On the highest mound of the city, perched so precariously on the slope that it almost seemed to hover above the unseen valley on its own, sat a temple. Great walls rose up to meet the sun, and when the small square windows caught the light just right, sunshine bathed the temple’s interior with warm golden light.
“The Temple of the Sun,” our tour guide announced with great pride and mysticism in his voice. “This is where the Inca worshipped the
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