Kuélap: the Other Machu Picchu

Llamas in the Mist

We stumbled out of the cloud forest this afternoon, filthy and fatigued, into the mountain town of Chachapoyas in the Amazonas Region of northern Peru. We’re still trying to shake two weeks’ worth of dust off our backpacks. After enjoying our first hot showers in weeks, we treated ourselves to a succulent dinner of fried potatoes and guinea pig, which any local will tell you is a mandatory part of the Peruvian experience. And now we’re back in our rustic little inn, Hostal Revash, where the kids have melted into their beds, leaving me with a moment to write.

This stage of our adventure began with a distressing flight from Lima featuring an old puddle jumper that seemed to be a hand-me-down from better days in wealthier lands. We’ve encountered many secondhand vehicles during our travels over the years, especially in Central America where entire fleets of public buses seem to be made up of old American Blue Birds. As far as I can tell, after school buses have run their useful course back home, school districts can opt to sell them to some entrepreneur in Central America where the useful course they might run is much longer. And also much bumpier.

After the buses have made the trip south, they’re usually painted in bright colors and adorned with plastic flowers and cheerful signs. Some of them, however, (those belonging, perhaps, to less artistic entrepreneurs) are still school-bus yellow. Many of them even still bare the name of their old alma mater, and catching a glimpse of one of these always makes me grin. I like to stop and imagine for a moment how the kids back at Springfield Elementary might react seeing their old bus stuffed full of colorful campesinos on their way to market, with sows and crates of chickens strapped to the top.

In any case, though I have grown accustomed to traveling on hand-me-down chicken buses, until the flight from Lima I was unaware that old airplanes could also be handed down. Air travel makes me a bit nervous even under the best of circumstances, so this finding caused a fair amount of anxiety. Despite my fears, however, we survived the flight unscathed and descended, weak-kneed, a couple hours later to the one-horse outdoor airport in Tarapoto on the edge of the Amazon Rainforest.

After the desert climate of Lima, Tarapoto’s jungle air welcomed us with a greeting similar to a smack in the face with a wet towel, so we were a bit dazed when we spotted the young lad with a handwritten sign that read Yackson. Eventually, we realized that the sign must be for Jason, whose name doesn’t translate well into Spanish. The lad smiled, as silky black curls escaped from beneath his baseball cap, and introduced himself as Segundo. Segundo, whose name signifies his position as the second child in his family, would be our driver for the next week. He pinched each of the children cheerfully on the cheek, and then ushered us into his minibus.

Off we sped to the cloud forest (a bit too fast, perhaps, for the foggy conditions on the road). Destination: the Abra Patricia Reserve.

We based ourselves in a rustic little eco-lodge run by the Association of Andean Ecosystems (ECOAN), and spent a week exploring the cloud forest with Segundo and Hector, our guide. Together, we floated across Lago Pomocochas to view areas that are being reforested, marveled at the rare spatule-tailed hummingbirds that are slowly making a comeback, and visited local schools where Cyrus, Bella, and Cruz were grilled by young pupils about our travels. The Peruvian students, in turn, talked about new strategies they’re learning from ECOAN for living in harmony with the forest, and also about the challenges they face when attempting to share these notions with their elders.

My favorite outings were our daily hikes with Hector, who has lived at the edge of the cloud forest all his life. Hector is a quiet man with an unhurried gait and kind black eyes. He took quite a liking to little Cruz and carried him on his shoulders during our afternoon walks as he taught us the names of the ferns, butterflies, and orchids clinging to trees along our path.

Hector’s lessons on flora and fauna were always interspersed with stories of the old Peru: of the Shining Path and radical Maoist mountain rebels; of living for so many years in fear of violence up in the mountains with only dogs as protection; of being held prisoner, on two separate occasions, once by each of the rival forces—the police on one side and the rebels on the other—neither of which seemed to care much about the interests of the mountain people. He also spoke of his hopes and dreams for life in the new Peru, in this time of peace when he gets to cultivate orchids and carry gringo children through the forest.

When our week at Abra Patricia ended, we said goodbye to Hector and made a tough decision not to visit the much-revered Machu Picchu, which attracts over one million visitors each year. Instead, in an attempt to stay off the Gringo Trail, our next stop would be Chachapoyas, where we had heard that pre-Incan ruins dot the mountainsides under a permanent blanket of fog.

As soon as the decision was final, Segundo loaded us back into the minibus, and we headed toward Chachapoyas. We spent our first evening here, at the lovely Hostel Revash, concocting the next chapter of our itinerary.

The owner of the hostel, Don Carlos, is a friendly fellow with a big mustache and an even bigger personality, who also happens to own an adventure company in town. He hooked us up with one of his guides, Manuel, who helped us map out a four-day hiking route that would ultimately culminate at Kuélap, an ancient city that is said to rival Machu Picchu in grandeur, though it attracts only a handful of visitors daily. Thankfully, Don Carlos secured a mule for us from a local campesino to carry little Cruz and also offered to stash a few of our backpacks here at the hostel to lighten our load during the trek.

The next morning Manuel met us at sunrise, and our journey began with an adrenaline-infused taxi ride, which actually may have been just the wakeup we needed since the instant coffee served in Peru hasn’t really been doing the trick. We’ve been fully disappointed, in fact, to find that in this land that produces so much of the world’s coffee, instant Nescafé is the only format available locally. Apparently the good stuff is shipped off to richer markets, leaving Peruvians to drink the paltry powdered variety.

With far too much blood in our caffeine streams, we set off to find a cab driver who might be willing to spend the entire day navigating mountain roads to get us to our trailhead in the Belen Valley. Manuel eventually convinced a friendlily looking fellow in a driver’s cap to take the job. He smiled at us from behind the wheel of a beat-up Toyota with the word “taxi” spelled out in tape on the window. The cab didn’t have seatbelts, I noticed, nor did it have four-wheel drive, which might come in handy in the mountains. By now, though, I’ve stopped expecting such luxuries.

Manuel slid in beside the driver, and Jason took shotgun. I squeezed into the backseat between the three kids, who were all a bit jacked-up since they had evidentially slipped packs of Nescafé into their hot chocolates during breakfast.

As soon as we left the city limits behind, pavement gave way to dirt, and any sign of road maintenance disappeared. The road grew narrower and steeper as we climbed into the mountains. A week of non-stop rain had transformed the dirt road, which would have been treacherous enough even in dry weather, into mud. This might not have been so bad in the flatlands, but here in the mountains it was worrisome.

As we ascended, hairpin turns hugged the mountainsides as if in fear of the shear drop-offs. The mud grew thicker and slicker and the road more narrow the higher we climbed. Inside the taxi, idle chatting ceased, and breathing grew heavier; all eyes were on the road ahead. I extended both of my arms in front of the kids, as nonchalantly as possible so as not to cause additional anxiety, and grasped the handle of each door in the hopes of becoming a human seatbelt.

Eventually, the clay became so thick and the grade so steep that our driver, who was now beginning to sweat profusely, slowed the cab to a crawl. Even so, every slight turn of the wheel or pump of the brakes landed us in a mud rut that sent the taxi sliding sideways. After some time, Señor Sweaty stopped the vehicle, removed his drivers cap, and wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve. He then got out to assess the situation. Manuel and Jason followed, since this was apparently a job requiring extra testosterone.

The tires and axles were coated with clay; it was impossible to get any traction. Still, with hours of mud behind us and the sun about to set, the men agreed that it was too late to turn back. They filed back into the front seat, and we crept on.

After another hour of climbing, we neared the top of a pass. The Belen Valley finally began to open up below us, giving us hope that the drive might soon be over. “Only a few more kilometers to go,” Manuel announced cheerfully. That and a 300-foot drop-off were now all that stood between us and the cabin we had reserved for the night.

Around the next turn, the taxi fell into a deep rut and began sliding sideways toward the edge. Señor Sweaty yanked the steering wheel madly attempting to get out of the rut, and Manuel lent a hand. The car continued sliding nonetheless, bound and determined to see what was over the cliff. We all inhaled sharply and held our breath for what seemed like an eternity.

Time began to pass in slow motion. In the seconds that followed, I swore to the gods that I would never, ever again ask for anything else in my whole entire life—promise—if they would just listen to this one prayer.

As we barreled slowly toward the drop-off, I noticed the extraordinary beauty of the scene passing by my window—the deep shades of red mud contrasted against the brilliant green of the cloud forest. Below us, a thick fog hung over the river, which snaked lazily through the emerald valley. I remember thinking that, from any other vantage point, this majestic cliff might have been a gorgeous sight.

When the taxi finally slid to a stop, the front driver’s side tire hung over the edge of the precipice. We sat in dead silence for a moment, afraid even to blink lest our movement send us plummeting over the edge.

Slowly, Señor Sweaty began to crank down his window. He peeked his head out carefully to evaluate our situation. Jason followed suit on the passenger side. The front tire was balanced on the edge with half of its treads in the mud and the other half suspended over the valley. Without a word, Señor Sweaty exhaled, put the taxi in reverse, and began backing up—ever so cautiously—until we were back in the center of the road.

As we made our final descent into the Belen Valley, we were all numb from adrenaline overdose, but breathing normally again. As the sun set on the lush green valley that stretched out below us laced in fog, our harried driver finally yanked the emergency brake and parked the cab. He pointed an unsteady finger ahead, toward a tiny rustic cabin in the distance below.

We all quickly agreed with his suggestion to abandon the taxi in the middle of the road and walk the last half mile on foot. Señor Sweaty, it was decided, would spend the night with us in the cabin and would worry about his return trip tomorrow.

After a fitful night’s repose, which involved falling from numerous cliffs into pits of rabid llamas, I abandoned the effort to sleep, peeled myself from the wooden cot, and reached for my glasses. The smell of Nescafé was wafting in from the kitchen, where Manuel was already making breakfast. The children rubbed sleep from their eyes and followed the savory scent to a wooden table on the front porch. We enjoyed a simple breakfast of scrambled eggs, Nescafé, and coca tea in silence. The morning sun shined gaily over the misty valley, which was somehow even greener than it had been the evening before.

After breakfast, Señor Sweaty pulled on his driver’s cap and headed off toward his taxi. The rest of us hit the trail toward Kuélap.

Over the next four days, Manuel led us down thousand-year-old paths through the cloud forest, sometimes on foot and other times on mule-back. Many of the villages do not yet have roads, so the trail gets a fair amount of foot traffic—not by hikers, per se, but rather by campesinos heading to their fields for a day's work, or hauling crops to market by mule, or walking in their finest clothes to visit relatives in town. The campesinos we met on the trail were kind and always intrigued, if a bit confused, by the gringos venturing along their misty mountaintops.

This area, which is covered by cloud forests and jade valleys stretching from the Amazon basin to the Andes Mountains, was once home to a group of people the Inca referred to as Chachapoyas, which Manuel said translates as Warriors of the Clouds. “The Chachapoyas were a feisty bunch and a constant headache for the Incas.” This provided a wealth of material for Jason and Manuel, who took turns entertaining (distracting) the children with tales of ancient warriors. Unlike actual historical accounts, each tale inevitably ended with an exultant victory in which the Chachapoyas triumphed over the nasty Incas.

The ancient Chachapoyas civilization left behind some gems of culture in a breath-taking environment that is generally explored by only the most audacious backpackers (and, slightly less often, by blissfully ignorant couples who specialize in torturing their children). By day we explored ancient ruins along the trail. Each evening we descended, dog-tired, into remote villages to lodge with a local family, generally in dirt-floor spare rooms with handmade wooden beds. There were outdoor toilets and cold showers, when we were lucky.

Meals were simple and delicious and generally centered around potatoes, which come in over a thousand varieties in these parts. They were usually accompanied by lentils and copious amounts of coca tea to warm the bones.

The last day of our journey—our final ascent into Kuélap—began with a brief cab ride, which Manuel explained was necessary to connect two parts of the trail. The kids were initially none too keen on getting back into a taxi after our experience with Señor Sweaty. However, they were so exhausted after four days of hiking that eventually they agreed that sitting down for a spell didn’t sound like such a bad idea after all.

Manuel chose a taxi with seatbelts this time, and with no signs of mud. We all piled in.

A few moments later, we were cresting the last hilltop that lay between us and the ancient city of Kuélap. The clouds seemed to part, if only momentarily, and there suddenly before us rose the massive limestone walls of the once-great civilization.

With mouths gaping wide, we unloaded from the taxi in awe.

We spent the entire day exploring Kuélap’s colossal walls and hundreds of buildings. There were scads of structures spread over the misty hilltops: ornately carved edifices once used for everything from homes and lookout towers to sacrificial alters and communal kitchens. Cyrus’s favorite was the gloomy dungeon that once held prisoners. Cruz preferred the jaguar room, which Manuel suggested was where prisoners were thrown as human sacrifices.

We had the hilltop fortress to ourselves. Well, I should say, it was just us and the llamas (which, incidentally, were Bella’s favorite part). As far as we could tell, though, the llamas weren’t really there to see Kuélap. In fact, we’re still arguing with Manuel about whether they were legitimately grazing—because Kuelapian grass is so nice—or whether they had been strategically placed there by the Peruvian Department of Tourism. Whatever the case, the place was magical.

As the sun began to set over Kuélap, we reclined on its highest point to snack on corn nuts and soak in the panoramic vista while Cyrus read to us from our guidebook. This pre-Incan fort, we learned, is at least twice as old as Machu Picchu, and quite a bit larger. In fact, it’s believed to be the largest ancient edifice in the Americas. If the site were easier to get to, we wondered, might it trump Machu Picchu as Peru's most famous archaeological destination? It certainly had us all thoroughly captivated.

As the kids snuck off to chase llamas, and Manuel looked into getting a taxi back to town, Jason and I drank in one final view from the mountaintop. We patted each other on the back and agreed that this grand finale had made the entire arduous journey worthwhile. But don’t ask the children.

We returned to our lovely little Hostel Revash this afternoon, where our host Don Carlos—relieved perhaps that we all survived the excursion unscathed—ambushed us in the garden with a surprise serenade. Under a canopy of tropical flowers he belted out traditional Peruvian songs along with his friend, a miniature version of himself, accompanying on the guitar. Afterwards, he passed around traditional licor de leche, made by fermenting cows’ milk into a surprisingly strong and tasty liquor.

¡Ay, ay, ay!

Tomorrow at dawn we leave for Cajamarca, which is a colonial mountain town in the northern highlands where we’ve decided to base ourselves for the rest of our time in Peru. Segundo, our driver from ECOAN, resurfaced today and graciously offered to drive us in the trusty old minibus in order to spare us the grueling fourteen hour chicken bus ride that would otherwise have been our only choice. The price was right, and we eagerly accepted.

Segundo says that the road to Cajamarca is a one-lane, dirt path that’s impossible to traverse during the rainy season (and, although we’re having a hard time believing it after our experience in the mud taxi, apparently this is not the rainy season). He warned us that the journey will take an entire day of navigation down rocky switchbacks that drop nearly 10,000 feet into the Canyon Marañón (that’s twice the depth of the Grand Canyon, mind you), until eventually zigzagging back up the other side. He claims that we won’t arrive in Cajamarca until after nightfall. I still don’t believe it will take all day, though. I mean, it looks really close on the map. Only like a finger’s length away or so. But whatever.

For now, a bit more licor de leche on the terrace, and then a good night’s sleep.