CHAPTER 26
After the endless miles of desert and the bleak mountain passes we had just crossed, driving down into Cusco was like arriving in another world. The original city built at the bottom of this verdant valley was the thriving capital of the vast Inca Empire, stretching from northern Ecuador all the way south to central, Chile. But that all came to an abrupt end when the Spanish Conquistador Francisco Pizzaro invaded the empire and took the city, along with its absurd amounts of gold and silver, in 1533. After the invasion, the Spanish planted their own city directly on top of the previous native capital, as they had in so many other locations, like Mexico City, Quito, and Bogotá. Cusco was different though. Where in most places the invaders raised the indigenous buildings and temples to the ground, leaving little trace of the former inhabitants- in Cusco, the Spanish incorporated large portions of the original Inca structural and architectural elements into their own buildings and churches. Maybe this was because even the Spanish realized that the craftsmanship of the Inca stone masons was too beautiful to destroy, or maybe they were just lazy, but this singular laps in the destructive nature of the Conquistadors has given rise to one of the most enchanting cites in all of the Americas. The center of this historic city is a labyrinth of cobbled streets and narrow alleys consisting of flight after flight of steep stairs. A jumble of shops and private homes, restaurants and hotels, crowd the avenues and plazas. Picturesque stone churches are on almost every corner, and long colonnades of Spanish origin abut monolithic walls constructed by the Inca, the huge multifaceted boulders pieced together like a puzzle.
The famous 12 sided stone- each stone was shaped by repeatedly setting the stone above it, measuring how it fit, and grinding away at both stones till they fit flush
Kacey and I picked our way down through the poor suburbs that sprawl up the sides of the Cusco valley, and finally entered the twisting maze of one way streets that makes up the historic town center. My mom had arrived in Cusco a few days earlier, and generously spent a few hours seeking out a viable place for us to park the truck. Most of the time, when we arrived in a new city, we would just drive around until we found a cheap “playa” (what they call parking lots down here), which are usually fairly abundant. In Cusco though, there is only one playa that I know of within a dozen block radius of the centro. The problem is that before we got there, we had no idea that there was only one, so the email that my mom had sent me earlier with directions, and turn by turn photos to boot, was a huge help (thanks Mom!). Mom had spent the last month, since we saw her at Thanksgiving, relaxing and making friends in Baños, Ecuador. We now found her waiting for us at her/our new hostel, only a stone’s throw from the main plaza, and were soon back to our jovial group of three.
Christmas Eve dinner consisted of a chicken sandwich for mom, a bowl of beans for Kacey, a pretty sad excuse for a burrito for me, and a few pints of beer between us. We were only one table among many at the crowded “gringo” bar, the only restaurant in Cusco open on Christmas Eve. We didn’t do much better for Christmas dinner- after Skyping family and friends at home all afternoon, we finally got enough motivation to get dressed and leave the hostel, but all we could find was a tourist trap pizza joint. None of us had any complaints though, Christmas morning had been a delight- we slept in and then crowded into Mom’s small room, with the makeshift Christmas trees she had conceived lining the wall. Presents were followed by slices of the traditional latin Christmas cake “panettone”- a sweet, light cake, embedded with small chunks of candied fruit- and spiked hot-chocolate. The only thing missing was the joy of being surrounded by our friends and family and the memory of the traditions we had grown up with. But that is the burden of the traveler- to experience the wonders offered by this world, sometimes you must forsake the comforts and familiarities of home.
Even though we had over a week to spend in Cusco, our time flew by and we were only able to see a handful of the sites that the city has to offer. The spectacular church of Santo Domingo was built directly on top of the most revered religious site in the Inca capital- Coricancha. Stepping through an intricately carved door of the church into the sprawling courtyard, we soon noticed large sections of the walls were of completely different stone work from those of the church. A number of the original walls from the temple of Coricancha had been left in place and integrated into the structure of Santo Domingo. The rooms previously used by Inca shaman to perform sacred rituals to their myriads of gods, had been converted into sanctuaries and shrines for use by the priests and clergy of Santo Domingo. Now that the site is a museum, the rooms sat empty, with gravel floors, and information plaques explaining the ironic history of the sacred temple. Unfortunately, the only thing remaining at the site to hint at its former glory during the times of the Inca was the stark grey stone walls. The stones seemed regular and repeating, but on closer inspection you could tell that each one was individually carved to fit that exact position. No mortar was used, and still, the joints between the stones were perfect- the old cliché about not being able to fit a piece of paper between them was all too true.
Another site we visited leading up to Christmas was the still functioning convent of La Merced. Fifteen or 20 nuns live in solitude behind the huge oak doors of this perplexing sanctuary. Parts of the convent have been opened up as a museum to the public, but most of the complex it is forbidden for anyone but the nuns to enter. I had a hard time rapping my mind around the idea that these women spend their whole lives hidden away from the outside world, quietly praying for the salvation of man. Without trying to offend anyone, it all seemed a little absurd to me- I recognize the value of tradition, and I certainly believe that everyone has the right to practice their religion however they see fit, but in this day and age I think there are probably a million different, more efficient ways of helping humanity, if that is the stated goal of this aged convent. Why not take an example from Mother Teresa? She was a nun too. Open your doors to the poor and the sick, run a clinic or a hospital; something productive, something tangible. Locking yourself away in a self imposed prison for your whole life isn’t going to help many people, and frankly sounds about as much fun as a hot stick in your eye, but maybe that’s just me…
La Merced was interesting, and Coricancha was impressive, but the strangest thing we saw was actually a few hours from Cusco, down a long dirt road off the main highway. We passed huge fields where sheep grazed, eating the remains after the last harvest. A backdrop of tall snow covered mountains was illuminated by the steep rays of the setting sun, the only time all day the rain had stopped long enough to let the clouds part. We came around a bend in the road and started down into a deep valley. Kacey suddenly shouted to stop the truck- we came skidding to a halt on the gravel, and climbed out to see what she had seen- to our amazement, the entire bottom of the valley was covered in a bewildering mosaic of rectangular pools. The pools were constructed like terraces up the side of the valley, each one four or five feet above the last. The walls of the pools were made of small stones, and down their faces ran a cascade of frozen salt. We were looking at the Mares Salt Mines.
The mines aren’t quite what you would think of when you hear that word, but are actually terraced evaporation ponds that utilize the salty brine bubbling out of an underground spring halfway up the valley wall. Through an intricate irrigation system, water is directed to each pond until a thin layer of brine collects, and then the flow is diverted to a different pond. The water slowly evaporates leaving the salt behind, which is harvested, bagged, and shipped off, or sold to unwitting tourists for much more than a normal bag of salt would cost at the grocery store.
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