Inca Llajta

I had some friends visit recently and we decided to take a hike back into the Azanaque mountain range that rises from the altiplano in my backyard. After packing up our daypacks, we contracted a taxi to take us around the bend to a nearby community where we set off into the valley of one of the main arteries that drains spring water from deep in the hills. I had heard rumors of some Incan ruins at the very peak of the mountain in the distance and we were intrigued. As in all situations in Bolivia, it is best to ask multiple opinions as to how to arrive to a certain point. So, we started with the taxi driver and his response was simply: "straight up the mountain". Second, I challenged my Quechua skills asking some older women in the plaza in this nearby town...using the vocabulary that I knew to barely say "In where is the Inca-town? I am going" and not knowing how to say "How do I get there?". She luckily understood a bit of what I say, and nodded in approval, waving her hands up the valley and rambled off things I couldn't understand. When she stared back at me, I shrugged my shoulders and said "I don't understand, I speak little Quechua". We finally got some concrete answers from some spanish speaking males (older males almost always have more education and therefore are more likely to speak spanish). Although hesitant at first, telling us it was really far away and jokingly how we should ask Evo (the president of Bolivia) to take us in his helicopter, they were extremely accurate in providing almost exact arrival time and assured us we could be back by 7PM.

And so off we went, greeting herders and their donkeys, llamas, sheep, and cows along the way confirming their curious stares with explanations of where we were going and trying to get more detailed directions...never more than a hand gesture up the mountain or blank stares from women who probably didn't understand my spanish. And so it was, after an hour and a half along the road that ran alongside the stream and very well maintained dwellings and natural "cellars" (rock walls constructed around the bottom of boulders in the shade and were indeed very chilly storing alfa and other crops), we took a sharp turn and started the journey up the half-frozen stream-valley, having a base of over 13,000ft according to our GPS. There were thick sheets of ice, smooth, cloudy, and strong, clinging to the slope formed from spring water secretly spilling out of the earth at random points along the way, The golden ambers of the paja grass, the dark red lichen, and dark burnt colored earth mounds accented our slow steps with a blend of color. We left the calm breeze and enormous boulders behind, greeting instead colder gusts and less vegetation. We saw 1 tree in the valley, a scraggly branch sticking out 90º from a rock face, reaching toward the sky with less than 10 twigs holding on to life.

Keeping my eyes down, focusing on one step at a time and trying to keep my heart from beating too fast, I would glance up at the looming peak and spot "rock-karens" (rock piles used traditionally to mark common and/or religious paths) along the ridge-lines. I encouraged my body to keep moving. I crossed llama tracks following contour based routes, similar to deer tracks through the woods, but not other signs of human or animal life. That is until we reached the very top. Our sandwiches and mandarine oranges gave us the burst of energy to clammer over the last rock faces, our bodies fighting the headache from lack of oxygen, now at over 15,500 ft. And here it was. Barely visible from afar, but very real up close. IncaLlajta. Town of the Incas. Terraces, rock walls, corral-like circular shelters, grinding stones, and even shards of pottery scattered everywhere. And a view from a piece of the Andes looking over the vast plain stretching out to the almost dry and blindingly salty Lago Poopó. Feeling exhausted and satisfied, I settled for my final summit of 15,700ft, while a couple others claimed they must have reached 16,000ft venturing along the ridge line a bit further. For as we thought we were reaching the peak, the mountain almost always keeps going along to yet another peak that may or may not be the real top. I'm not sure why the Incas liked climbing to the highest peaks to settle, but the silence and serenity and peace I felt could have played a role. What did they grind all the way up here? What were these small circular corrals for? Did they actually live up here, or was it just a fort? We left not really knowing and not really needing to know the answers, after all we were visiting a sacred place, and knew we had to head back down the mountain.


We clumsily bumbled back down the mountain, racing the setting sun, running, sliding down the ice patches on our bums, and trusting our tired knees wouldn't give up on us. We reached the road for our final trek back to the town, arriving there exactly when our 'guide' said we would, an hour after sunset and only 20 minutes past dark. We called the taxi to come get us from Huari and ate the most delicious Bolivian soup and meatball with rice dinner at a local pensión. I think that hike reminded me of Bolivia's beauty and endurance and secrets. My work is simple yet extremely difficult at times. I looked at my calendar recently, and felt a sense of urgency to the end of my service here. Will I feel exhausted and satisfied at the end of this journey? I hope so, but I am also aware that I am simply visiting a sacred place and I will leave with a lot of unanswered questions. It is my goal to feel my sore muscles, the reminders of such a journey, and be able to see the beauty in what I experienced, and be grateful for those small successes whenever they may arise.