Sometimes I go to ruins

Lenke and I had been planning this visit to the Tipon ruins for a couple of days, and we started our afternoon right with some ice cream and a walk under what was an uncommonly-clear sky for the rainy season of Cusco, Peru. After asking three different people, we stood at what we felt certain was the correct bus stop. A half-hour and several buses later, we weren't so sure. Our doubts were confirmed when we saw the bus labeled 'Tipon' blow by the cross-street near where we were standing. Not only did we have the wrong stop, but we had done the exact same thing our friend Amy had done only the day before after asking some locals where to wait. Apparently even the Peruvians have a hard time figuring out the unlabeled bus system.

Not long after we found the right (unmarked) stop, another bus for Tipon came by, belching diesel while the driver hung precariously out the door as he shouted out the stops. The bus was already at capacity as we got on, and only got more crowded as we made our way through the city: business men in pinstripe suits, old women with rainbow-canvas bags of fruit, schoolchildren in uniforms of grey sweaters and navy pants or skirt, campesino women from the valley in their bright, knitted clothes and broad, felt hats that always look too small. I didn't have a seat, but I did have a coveted spot with my head right next to the speaker, which was playing the 'demo' function from a Casio keyboard with Peruvian singers overlaid; in traditional Peruvian style it was much too loud, regardless of where you were in the bus.

We careened through the city for perhaps 20 minutes, while I winced as the fare-taker hopped out of the bus as it was moving around corners with paperwork to drop who-knows-where. Eventually we made it out into the valley, where we were greeted by a backdrop of sage-green mountains that in places resembled overstuffed furniture or rumpled crushed velvet; above were motionless fluffy white clouds that looked as if they had been painted onto canvas. We passed fields of crops I couldn't identify - you forget how little you know about your food when you live in the city - and half-finished houses, hotels, and mud-brick walls. I don't imagine that the walls knew they were destined to be billboards when they were built, but now every square inch was covered with logos: Inca Cola, Pepsi Cola, Firestone, but mostly a multitude of political banners. The banners are most easily remembered not by the name on them, but by the logo the voter is to X out to indicate their choice: will you vote for the Broom or the Clay Jar?

The bus slows down just enough for use to safely disembark in a small pueblo. We negotiate a taxi fare and head towards the ruins, which are tucked into a valley between two pillowy mountain folds 15 minutes from town. When we arrive, all we can really see is a stone wall of perhaps 10 feet in front of us, with a small cut to one side producing a steady stream of water that disappears into a subterranean drainage. As we climb the adjoining steps, however, we see that there is a series of such walls, with long, flat expanses of terraced earth inbetween. Looking down on the entrance to the ruins, they look like a wide, ceremonial staircase for giants. The canal system provides water from an unseen source to the terraces, some of which are still cultivated. As we continue to ascend, we see a series of building remains. Unfortunately, without a guide or any signs posted, there was little context to place the functions of the buildings. All I knew about the site was that it was built for the father of one of the Incas, so what we were seeing must have been the remnants of royal residences.

But we had a grand time regardless, as Lenke and I enjoyed the perfect day high in the mountains. The sun gave the perfectly carved rocks the look of mottled bronze, and the sound of running water provided an ideal soundtrack. We had the ruins almost to ourselves as we climbed steep steps and admired the Inca's impressive stone work. But, like most ruins in the Sacred Valley, Tipon is an active archeological site, so we were greeted with whistles by small groups of laborers in dusty boots and blue hard hats (I say 'we' as if they might have been whistling with me, not the blond Dutch girl I was with. I guess construction workers are the same worldwide).

We walked the road back to the town, enjoying the view of the valley while herds of sheep and cattle were maneuvered around us. When Lenke stopped to take a picture of a farm, the parents sent their little girl up to ask for money for the picture. Twice on our descent we were greeted by little girls who would say in a sweet, young voice 'plataquita?' They were asking for 'a little money.' I am amazed at the shamelessness Peruvians seem to display in asking for money. I've been to some pretty poor areas of the world, like rural India and Cambodia, but in those places I experienced the opposite of what I see here. Sure, some Indians will scam you out your money any way they can, but this is a way to earn the money - there is too much pride involved to simply demand cash. In Cusco there are groups of women who dress in traditional clothes with llamas in tow, just waiting for someone to take their picture so they can demand a cash remission. Garrett, from my Spanish class, even told me that he took a picture of his girlfriend at some ruins and a Peruvian ran up, explaining that he was in the background of the picture and thus deserved a sole for his trouble.

Brushing off the dollar signs above our heads, we passed signs tempting us with offers of cuy (guinea pig) and cerveza as Lenke and I made our way through the final village before the highway. It was probably my best day in Cusco, perhaps because I wasn't actually in the city.