by Mark Adams
By twelve-thirty, John and I were at the Hidroeléctrica station, the final gateway to Aguas Calientes. A small, presumably portable bazaar was set up on top of the tracks, where señoras sold meals to electrical plant workers, and bottled water and handicrafts to tourists. The day after his trip to Machu Picchu in 1911, Bingham stopped briefly at this very spot.
The hike John and I had just made up and down from Llactapata—more than a vertical mile in elevation change—would have killed me two weeks earlier. Now it was just another vigorous walk. There was no question that I had taken a huge leap forward in fitness. Despite shoveling five thousand calories a day down my throat, my pants were looser. I’d reached into my back pocket that morning to find something and encountered a hard, grapefruit-like object. It was my butt. So when John mentioned that it was possible to walk the rail line to Aguas Calientes instead of riding the train, it suddenly seemed foolish not to walk through Mandor Pampa, the place where the tipsy innkeeper Melchor Arteaga (whom Bingham noted was “overly fond of ‘firewater’”) had promised to lead the explorer the following morning up the mountain he called Machu Picchu, Quechua for “Old Peak.” This might be my only chance to hike like a serious adventurer, to carry my own pack like a traveler, not heave it onto the luggage rack like a tourist.
“I can ride a train in New York,” I told John.
“All right, then!” he said, thumping his bamboo stick. “We walk to Machu Picchu. Just like Bingham. And twenty dollars in train fare saved!”
Edgar was waiting with the Land Cruiser, leaning against the front grille and talking into his cell phone. He was trying to locate a mechanic who’d drive out from Cusco, and the odds were not in his favor. Justo was doing his worried pigeon walk, hands behind his back. When he saw John and me, he raised his arms and shouted, “Los aventureros!” In each hand he held a brown paper bag. “For the final lunch, un clasico!” he said. It was an aspirational name for a ham and cheese sandwich. Edgar snapped his phone shut and pulled me aside.
“Hombre, you sure you want to walk?” he asked in a low voice. “You’ve got a lot of books in this bag. The train will be here soon. You’ll be in Aguas Calientes long before you’ll get there walking.” I assured him that I was looking forward to the hike, for historical purposes. After all, what was now the train track had once been the mule trail that led Bingham through these parts, right?
We said our good-byes. When I shook Justo’s hand, he smiled broadly enough that I could see the gums above his gold teeth. Tiny gotas filled the corners of his eyes. “I hope we see each other again, Señor Mark,” he said.
When Bingham had passed through here on his way to the Huadquiña plantation in 1911, he interviewed the proprietor of a small ranch that was called Intihuatana. In The Incas of Peru, Clements Markham had translated the word intihuatana to mean “place where the sun is tied up or encircled.” It refers to a type of carved rock that the Incas are thought to have used in solar observation and worship. From where John and I stood, we could almost see the most famous intihuatana ever found, the one up at Machu Picchu.
“There was a major intihuatana down here, too,” John said. “As good as the one at Machu Picchu, but it’s never been studied. There were only the two good ones left—the Spaniards destroyed the rest.” This seemed an awfully unlikely spot for important Inca ruins, sandwiched between a power plant and a craft bazaar. John walked over to the hillside, a thicket of banana, coffee and avocado trees that rose at such a steep angle that the train arrived by zigzagging back and forth like a Donkey Kong barrel. “There used to be a trail right here,” he said. “What the hell happened?”
John finally spotted a small opening in the brush. “All right, Mark,” he said, lifting his bags, “put your big pack on your back. Strap your smaller one on your front. It’ll help you keep your balance so you don’t fall over.” I did as I was told. I looked like a tortoise.
We climbed a hundred feet up the slope, then another hundred, with John occasionally peering into small stands of trees or checking behind a three-sided shack as if he’d dropped something back there. Fifteen minutes into my career as a hard-core backpacker, I knew I’d made a mistake. The muscles between my shoulders felt like they were being slowly torn from the bone. If this intihuatana turns out to be another fucking usnu, I thought, I’m going to push him in front of that train.
“Ah, there it is!” John shouted. “Almost no one knows about this.”
I followed him down a short path that led from the train tracks and through an archlike opening in the flora. And I’ll be damned if we didn’t step out onto one of the most amazing pieces of stonework I’d yet seen in Peru. Carved out of a massive chunk of granite was a sculpture that wouldn’t have been out of place at the Museum of Modern Art. Its wide platform top and thirty-foot-high face had been squared off and smoothed. Multiple niches and altars surrounded a set of steps that led up to a geometric base, like a gigantic trophy. It appeared to have once held a gnomon, the vertical part of a sundial.
“The electrical company broke that bit off,” John said. “Or so the locals tell me.”
After walking around to admire the stone from every possible angle, we sat down, unwrapped our clasicos, and gazed up at Machu Picchu, which now seemed close enough to hit with a Frisbee. John didn’t even have to use his GPS to show me that we were picnicking atop an invisible axis from Llactapata to the more famous intihuatana stone at Machu Picchu, perched atop a stack of terraces like a candle on a birthday cake. Each time there was a break in the crowds up above, I could practically trace its outline with my finger.
Had I not been carrying sixty pounds of belongings, the six-mile walk to Aguas Calientes might have been lovely. We followed the Urubamba River as it looped around Machu Picchu. I tried to match photographs Bingham had taken with what I saw, but it was hard to concentrate when I was stopping every few seconds to shift the weight of my pack. According to the map I had, we were about half a mile, horizontally speaking, from Machu Picchu’s Sacred Plaza. In the crazy-quilt world of actual Peruvian geography, we were almost as far beneath it.
We crossed a train trestle above the river and proceeded to the spot where Mandor Pampa should have been. Whatever Bingham had seen there had long since been swept away, replaced by tree ferns.
For three hours, I struggled to keep up with John, who maintained his metronomic pace and paused occasionally to let me catch up. The canyon narrowed until its sides were almost perpendicular to the river, leaving us in shadow. Just when I started to wonder what the logistics were for repatriating a body to the United States, we spotted a depot with a train parked in a siding. On its side was painted HIRAM BINGHAM. Welcome to Aguas Calientes.
THIRTY-THREE
Historian Makes History
Mandor Pampa
The morning of July 24, 1911, was a rainy one, and like any serious firewater aficionado, tavernkeeper Melchor Arteaga was in no hurry to seize the day. Bingham dangled a silver dollar reward if Arteaga would guide him to the ruins that he’d boasted about the night before. When Arteaga agreed, Bingham inquired where, exactly, they were going. Arteaga “pointed straight up at the top of the mountain.” Bingham’s expedition companions from Yale decided to stay behind.
Arteaga, Bingham and his military escort, Sergeant Carrasco, departed Mandor Pampa at 10:07 A.M. About forty minutes later, the trio arrived at a primitive bridge much like those John and I had crossed en route to Espiritu Pampa: “four tree trunks” that had been “bound together with vines” and stretched “only a few inches above the roaring rapids.” The Peruvians crossed barefoot, Bingham later recalled, “using their somewhat prehensile toes to keep from slipping,” a description that managed to compliment their bravery while not-so-subtly comparing them to monkeys. Bingham crawled across.
The difficult climb up the eastern face of the mountain took about eighty minutes. Much of the journey was made on all fours, Bingham recalled, “sometimes holding on by our fingernails.” Bingham was now within t
he zone known as the ceja de selva, the eyebrow of the jungle, where the cloud forest was thick. Tree trunks cut with rough notches served as ladders in otherwise impassable spots. Arteaga warned his guests to watch out for vipers. As it typically does at Machu Picchu, the early cloud cover burned off and the gray day turned hot and humid. Just after noon, the three men arrived at the top of the slope.
The first structure Bingham encountered at Machu Picchu was a Quechua hut. This was the house of the Richarte family, one of Arteaga’s subtenants who had settled on the ridge between the peaks of Mount Machu Picchu and Huayna Picchu. Introductions were awkward—the farmers, who had selected the site at least in part because it was an excellent place to elude nosy government officials, were surely rattled by the arrival of a six-feet-four white man with yellow hair and a military escort. Once Arteaga explained the reason for Bingham’s appearance, however, the Richartes laid a poncho across a wooden bench and invited the American to sit down. They offered their guest, who hadn’t packed a lunch, sweet potatoes and “dripping gourds full of cool delicious water.”
Like every first-time visitor to Machu Picchu, Bingham took a few moments to soak in one of the world’s most incredible natural settings:Tremendous green precipices fell away to the white rapids of the Urubamba below. Immediately in front, on the north side of the valley, was a great granite cliff rising 2000 feet sheer. To the left was the solitary peak of Huayna Picchu, surrounded by seemingly inaccessible precipices. On all sides were rocky cliffs. Beyond them cloud-capped mountains rose thousands of feet above us.
Bingham took note of some well-preserved Inca terraces that the farmers had “cleared off and burned over” for planting, creating an ideal spot for growing tomatoes, peppers, corn and other crops. Decades later researchers would discover that the Inca builders had not only filled these terraces with a thick layer of topsoil, but had also employed granite chips left over from stone cutting to lay down an ingenious multilayered drainage system.
Once rehydrated, the explorer wanted to see the ruins. Arteaga begged off, saying he’d “been there once before” and wanted to hang back and chat with his tenants. The Richartes’s young son, never named or quoted in any of Bingham’s books but probably the first guide to lead a tour through the ruins of Machu Picchu, was deputized to take the strange guest and his military escort to have a look around.
(In any picture of Machu Picchu taken from its best-known angle, the buildings will fall roughly into two groups, on the left and right, separated by a grassy central plaza.8 At the rear of the photo will be the rocky green rhino horn of Huayna Picchu. Looking north, the major discoveries of Bingham’s July 24 visit took place on the left side, starting in the foreground and advancing toward Huayna Picchu.)
The trio began walking around the side of the mountain, until they reached “a great flight of beautifully constructed stone-face terraces, perhaps a hundred of them, each hundreds of feet long and 10 feet high.” Bingham was reminded of the terraces he’d just seen at Ollantaytambo, the same that Manco had once ridden his stolen horse atop. The ones before him were handsome but “nothing to be excited about.” Using one of the widest terraces as their path, sidestepping charred tree trunks, the three moved ahead into the “untouched forest beyond.”
Inside the green tangle of vegetation, something caught Bingham’s attention. The boy had led them into “a maze of beautiful granite houses! The buildings were covered with trees and moss and the growth of centuries, but in the dense shadow, hiding in bamboo thickets and tangled vines, could be seen, here and there, walls of white granite ashlars most carefully cut and exquisitely fitted together.”
Bingham had entered the area of Machu Picchu now known as the Eastern Urban Sector. He may have been exaggerating slightly about the overgrowth, since the tenant farmers had cleared much of the site to plant their crops. Then again, maybe not. Photographs Bingham took show adult trees growing not just inside and around those now-famous buildings, but on top of them as well. “Some walls were actually supporting trees ten and twelve inches in diameter,” he noted.
The boy pushed on ahead, ducking nimbly under bamboo and scrambling up terrace walls as Bingham struggled to follow. The explorer seems to have almost collided with his first important find, a cave that the boy pointed out. The cavern’s interior chamber was lined with exquisite stonework. At its center were four white stone steps, carved at slightly irregular angles so that they cast enigmatic shadows. Bingham, who over time named the features of Machu Picchu like Adam identifying every beast of the field in the book of Genesis, dubbed this opening the Royal Mausoleum.
Directly above the cave, the Incas had built a high, semicircular wall that formed a tower of sorts; its perfectly curved face contained two small windows. (Bingham named it the Semicircular Temple; it’s now commonly known as the Torreon, or Temple of the Sun.) Climbing an adjacent set of stairs, Bingham could see that the curved wall wrapped around until it straightened like the stem on a letter “P,” then turned ninety degrees to the left.
The masonry, like that of most Inca masterworks, tilted slightly inward and tapered as it went up. “Owing to the absence of mortar,” Bingham wrote, “there are no ugly spaces between the rocks. They might have grown together.” The use of white granite had given the walls a luminous beauty that surpassed anything Bingham had ever seen. “Dimly, I began to realize that this wall and its adjoining semicircular temple over the cave were as fine as the finest stonework in the world.... It fairly took my breath away.”
Bingham followed his guide up a granite staircase to a small clearing that the boy’s family had chosen for a vegetable patch. Standing watch over the Richarte family produce were “the ruins of two of the finest structures I have ever seen in Peru.” In contrast to the intricate granite brickwork of the Mausoleum wall, these buildings had been constructed from enormous blocks comparable in size to those at Sacsahuaman, some of them “ten feet in length, and higher than a man.” Both were three-sided temples. The temple facing south contained a fourteen-foot-long slab of waist-high granite, which sat beneath seven niches set high in the rear wall; Bingham surmised that this spot had been a “sacrificial altar.”
Ninety degrees to the right, the other temple seemed in particular to catch Bingham’s fancy. “Best windows I have ever seen,” he scribbled in his notebook. Three apertures, each measuring four feet by three feet, faced east “over the canyon to the rising sun.” The openings looked onto a large central plaza, and beyond to the Urubamba River flowing far below. Straight ahead in the distance, the triptych framed a panorama of skyscraping mountain peaks. Bingham lingered, puzzling over these “three conspicuously large windows, obviously too large to serve any useful purpose.” Clements Markham, he knew, had mentioned an important place in The Incas of Peru: “the hill with the three openings or windows.” Bingham sensed immediately that this structure had “peculiar significance.”
Once again, Bingham followed almost to the letter the Royal Geographical Society’s Hints to Travellers three-step process for “obtaining a record of monument.” (Draw a floor plan; shoot pictures; and take copious measurements and descriptive notes.) The explorer sketched the three-windowed building into his small leather-covered notebook. Then he pulled out his camera and tripod and began to document his find, taking care to jot down the details of each shot. While inspecting the temple’s interior, he noticed that something had been scrawled on one of the walls: “Lizarraga 1902.” Lizarraga, he later learned, was a farmer who rented land farther down the Urubamba Valley.
As the sun began its downward descent, Bingham tried to digest everything he’d taken in. The boy had one more surprise, though. At the site’s very highest point—a spot that Bingham would learn the next day was, incredibly, visible from the very mule road that he had been following—stood a large rock carved like a sundial. It had a wide base and a squarish twenty-inch-tall gnomon, shaped like a flat-topped obelisk. Such an Inca carving, Bingham knew from Markham’s writings, must be an inti
huatana. Bingham stationed Sergeant Carrasco and the boy guide next to the carved rock and snapped a photograph, the template for a century’s worth of souvenir photos.
With darkness coming on quickly, Bingham returned to the Richarte hut to collect Arteaga and make the descent to Mandor Pampa. The first recorded visit to Machu Picchu lasted less than five hours.
THIRTY-FOUR
Going Up
At Machu Picchu
If you’ve ever thought, The new Times Square is delightful but would be even better if it were more claustrophobic and nearly impossible to leave, then Aguas Calientes is calling your name. Otherwise, you’d probably find the town—also known as Machu Picchu Pueblo—about as seedy as the old Times Square, another destination where the typical visitor just wanted to rent a bed for a few hours. Like a bloodhound, John sniffed out a couple of ten-dollar rooms. (A person can easily spend two hundred dollars a night on accommodations. Rooms up at the site-adjacent Machu Picchu Sanctuary Lodge, which is like an Embassy Suites with no pool or parking lot but a great location, start at eight hundred dollars.) The nice señora who ran the hostel pressed stacks of business cards into our hands each time we entered or exited, begging us to tell our friends about her place.
