Peru is one of the world’s greatest centers for the discovery of ancient civilization.  Peru is a very diverse country.  This diversity comes from a large variation of climatic, natural, and cultural factors.  The majority of Peruvians are descendants of early Spanish Settlers, Incas, and ancient pre Incan tribes.  The recipe I will be presenting is for Saltado de Calamares, which means Sauté of squids.  The Peruvian sea is known for being rich in aquatic life, especially large squids.  This recipe utilizes early Spanish culinary styling and the benefits of the Peruvian sea.   

Country Information

·      Geographic Facts

Here are three geographic facts about Peru:

1.                  Peru is located in the west central part of South America.  The regions of Peru are very diverse; they contain beaches, deserts, and jungles.

2.                  Peru is the 19th largest country in the world.  The country draws much attention for archaeological and historical study.

3.                  Peru has a population of over 23 million people.

·      3 “Serious” Facts

Here are three serious facts about Peru:

1.                  Peru suffers from great poverty, but still maintains a 90% literacy rate. 

2.                  The health care in Peru is poor.  In Peru 6.9% of infants do not survive for more than one year.

3.                  The predominant religion of Peru is Roman Catholicism and Protestantism.  Over 93% of Peruvians are Roman Catholic or Protestant, though Mormonism is growing rapidly.

·      3 “Fun” Facts

Here are three fun facts about Peru:

1.                  Many theories and studies have come from the discovery of ancient civilizations artifacts and bones in Peru.

2.                  Peru contains 84 of the 103 ecosystems known in the world.

3.                  The weeping willow tree was originally discovered in Peru, making Peru the originator of aspirin.

·      A “Potpourri” Item

Here are some unusual facts about Peru:

1.              Peru has over 150 nude beaches throughout the country.

2.              The Potato originated in Peru and they have over 3,000 varieties. 

3.              Peru has 1,701 species of birds, which is the most in the world

Food Information

·      Recipe:

Ingredients:

• 2 tablespoons of vegetable oil
• 1 tablespoon of ground garlic
• 2 cups of onion, cut
• 1/2 cup of yellow chili/pepper in strips, cleaned and without seeds
• 1/2 cup of shallots, chopped (green part)
• 2 tablespoons of white vinegar
• 3 tablespoons of soy sauce
• 2 tablespoons of yellow chili/pepper sauce
• 3 cups of squids, in rings
• 1 cup of cut tomatoes
• 1/4 cup of chicken stock
• 2 tablespoons of chopped cilantro
• Cumin
• Salt
• Pepper

Preparation:  Heat the oil in a frying pan on a high flame and fry the garlic, onion, yellow chili/pepper in strips and the shallots for 4 minutes. Add the vinegar and let it cook for some seconds.  Add the soy sauce, yellow chili/pepper sauce, squids and tomatoes. Fry for 3 minutes more.  Season with cumin, salt and pepper. Pour the chicken stock, let it boil and put out the flame. Sprinkle the cilantro and serve with white rice.

Source: http://Peru-recipes.com/2009/04/saltado-de-calamares-saute-of-squids

·      My Kitchen Story

I wrote down the original recipe for Saltado de Calamares and brought it to my friend’s dad, who is a professional chef.  He is the owner of and originator of Zea’s, Coffee Rani, and Jerk’s Chicken.  I told him I had to cook this Peruvian dish for school and he was very excited.  He is always looking to utilize different culture’s culinary styles.  He acquired the squid from one of his restaurants and already had the other ingredients.  We worked as a team and I learned a lot from his culinary skills.  After I accidentally spilled all of his cumin, I went to the grocery and then we got started.  He and I put everything together relatively quickly and had the finished product in about two hours.  We both prepared a plate and thought it was absolutely fantastic.    He is actually strongly considering incorporating it into one of his restaurants.  Thanks to this project there will more than likely be a new menu item at Zea’s.  The recipe is excellent, especially for those who enjoy dishes with squid.  I would strongly recommend this recipe to anyone wanting to spice things up with something new and tasty.       

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Contact Info: To contact the author of “A Taste of Peru: A Recipe for Saltado de Calamares,” please email peter.nastasi@selu.edu.

David C. Wyld (dwyld@selu.edu) is the Robert Maurin Professor of Management at Southeastern Louisiana University in Hammond, Louisiana. He is a management consultant, researcher/writer, and executive educator. His blog, Wyld About Business, can be viewed at http://wyld-business.blogspot.com/.

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The Peruvian Indians assembled the ship under the instruction of a Scottish engineer and it was finally put into service in 1874 as a ferry boat, crossing from Puno in Peru to La Paz in Bolivia, which was a 50 miles trip. 

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It is now used as a floating warehouse by the Peruvian navy. It was replaced by the Ollanta which was built in Hull, England in 1931, dismantled for transportation and then reassembled at the lake.

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Titicaca is the largest lake in South America at 118 miles, or 190 kilometres long and it covers an area of 9065 square kilometres, or three thousand five hundred square miles. The maximum depth is 275 metres, or nine hundred and three feet.  Lake Maracaibo in Venezuela is much larger that Titicaca but it is not strictly speaking a lake, but just an almost land-locked bay of the Caribbean Sea.  

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It is fed by melt water from glaciers and rainfall, and has five main river systems which drain into it; the largest by volume of water is the River Ramis. There are also another forty one streams running down into Titiaca.

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The lake itself has forty one islands, some of which are inhabited.  It also has a group of around forty artificial islands made from floating reeds and inhabited by people known as the Uros. Their original purpose was a defensive one so that if the people were threatened, they could easily move their island elsewhere.

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The name of the lake, Titicaca, translates as ‘Rock Puma’ and is thought to refer to its shapes. From the air it looks just like a puma chasing a small animal which some say is a rabbit.

My travelling buddy and I were keen to explore the great lake of Titicaca, and so strolled down to the harbour-side in search of a fisherman willing to accept our fare. It seemed we were not alone. Stretching down the narrow pier seethed a pulsating entity of white sunburnt baldies and bulging flappy women. Kids screamed and parents disciplined whilst enthusiastic locals waved their arms and directed the hoard uselessly. The swarming, tacky touch of skin on skin enveloped me.

Just as my teeth-clenched wading brought me to a relieving edge, a voice sounded out above the rest.

“I will take you, Miss, I will take you, where you go?”

I turned, dripping and dizzy, to see a toothless grin proudly presenting an embarrassed-looking dingy.

“Yes, every tour and you pay much more cheap with me, Captain Mario. And this my boat, my fine, fine boat.”

There was no toilet, no cushioned seating and no leaflets, it did have a motor and it did float. Finally, something real. I was thrilled, and grateful to be followed by only five other intrepid explorers.

Image by author.
*Leaving the Puno harbour*

Mario introduced his identically grinning father, and once aboard their fine vessel, we pulled out of the harbour, past the sardine-packed tour boats and towards the open waves. With the sea in my face I felt free and released, embarking on my own private escapade – Mario had even invited us to stay with his family on his home island of Amantani…not the sort of thing you’d find in the guide book.

To shelter from the wind I sat in the little cabin opposite two local women. Sharing a nod and a smile I stole a deep glance into their dark, wizened eyes and sensed a flash of defeated contentment.  They were round and stout looking, as is the way with Peruvian country-folk, all tucked up in their eternally layered skirts and blankets. Their long black hair was tightly plaited back under the wide-brimmed straw hats, and tiny wisps of tell-tale grey contrasted against the colourful fabrics, like a forbidden weariness oozing out. We were taking them to their homes on the Uros islands, along with a selection of bulging sacks filled with essential supplies from the mainland, or the remains of their efforts at the craft markets maybe. I wondered how many times they must have made this little journey, from Puno to the Uros islands, and doubted that they’d ever had to go further. They looked tired and old, and trapped in a sphere of routine and necessity.

Image by author.
*A school day on the Uros Islands*

Soon the empty blue ahead became speckled with bright yellow. Stretched out before us as far as we could see, were countless little landmasses made from bright yellow straw, and floating precariously on the water. We began to slow and the two local women rose, gathering their skirts. To my joy, we were able to follow.

I leapt out of the boat and my body weight plunged, and I bounced a few times before feeling steady. Each step was taken with caution and I looked about in amazement at the mass of locals bounding barefoot, invincible. I quickly caught up with one of the women from our boat as she sat down behind a large rectangular blanket on the reeds. Upon this she began to lay intricately woven dolls and cushion covers, and so revealing the contents of her sack. Her name was Suyay and in my pitiful Spanish, and with gestures and sounds, I began asking her about the islands.

Image by author.

*Talking to Suyay*

The Uros people had once lived on the mainland, until the threats of the Inca tribes had forced them to flee into the water. In a desperate quest for survival, the Uros people had utilised the lake’s water reeds to build floating islands, which needed constant replenishing as the plants died from below. Such creativity filled my mind with wonderment. The reeds consumed their whole livelihood – they used them to build houses, baskets, carrycots and delicate crafts and models. Suyay’s son, Amaru, showed me a boat that he had made along with the other men from the island. It looked like a miniature pirate ship and I was astounded that straw could be so strong.

Image by author.
*Amaru’s ship of reeds*

I couldn’t leave without buying something from Suyay’s blanket, so I chose two tiny models of Amaru’s boat complete with two tiny people to sail them, hard at work like everyone around me. As we waved goodbye I saw a tour group arriving. They gathered round their guide for an explanation of this amazing place and in doing so, ignored the local people right before their eyes. They might never again be in contact with such unusual and interesting people, and yet the barrier between them could not have been more obvious.

Once back on the waves our troubles began.

We were chatting to the three Americans when the first few splutters escaped. The engine had given up…but Captain Mario expertly solved the problem in no time. The second episode took a little longer to correct and it was interesting to watch Mario disassemble the engine, bring up disembodied parts from under the deck and perform intricate operations to magical effect.

Interest soon dissolved. Repeated engine failure and the gradually ineffective rescue procedures, in addition to the heated crescendos of triple-speed Spanish between Mario and his father, flicked my panic switch. The engine was dismantled. Individual parts were immersed in tubs of water and Mario dribbled petrol whilst trying to create a spark. Thoughts of explosive danger were plaguing my brain and it took all my effort to keep frantic outbursts at bay. Despite the momentary relieving jokes that were being nervously exchanged, the over-riding feeling was one of doom, and this only worsened when Mario began signalling to passing boats with a fragment of mirror to no effect. Watching their surf as they sped by, I would have gladly swapped places with the tacky tourists, or even taken a ride in Amaru’s ship of reeds.

Without motion, the lake became turbulent and we bounced violently. We were saved at one point, when the Spanish couple produced a mobile phone, but this set Mario into a frenzy. When we finally calmed him down with a chorus of mas despachio, it appeared that alerting the coastguard would cost Mario their petrol, and a hefty fine. So, with a determined and rather menacing look, he wrenched up a few planks from the top deck and thrust them into our arms – we were to paddle the 5 kilometres to shore, and night was not far behind.

Image by author.
*My buddy’s turn to paddle*

It was time to get stuck in. Mario’s father wrestled with the back rudder, and barely managed to keep us in the same direction, while the rest of us took turns in hanging over the side with a splintering plank of wood. Achieving leverage on the violent waves, which alternated between gushing into our faces and dancing just out of reach, was impossible.

Morale on board was absorbed by hopelessness. The entire trip from Puno to Armantani was scheduled to take four hours. So far we had taken nine and we hadn’t even left the Puno inlet. Shore remained a distant shadow, but as I began mental preparations for a night afloat Mario’s father exclaimed excitedly. He had touched rock with his oar through the water. I stole a glance from my dedicated paddling and made out houses and even animals grazing on the faint hills ahead. Now all we had to do was punt ourselves along and gradually lodge the useless vessel on the saviour-shore.

Image by author.
*Fleeing the doomed vessle*

I could not get off that boat fast enough. I didn’t care where we were, I was staying. Mario wanted us to continue to Armantani, but nothing in the world could have made me step back on that cursed wreck. After a hurried farewell, my buddy and I teamed up with the three Americans, picked a direction at random and began to walk along the dusty, winding track.

The landscape was barren and sparse, with raw, angry looking hills to our left, exposed to the wind racing across the ominous lake to our right. Soon, amongst the startled donkeys, a few earthen buildings pitted our view and gradually we trooped past wire farm fences, which failed to keep the few scrawny chickens at bay. Peeping out from behind some outbuildings, two mucky faces giggled at us and bravely crept forwards to get a better stare.

Light was fading fast, but as we rounded a steep slope a glow of welcoming light rose from a cluster of cosy cottages. We advanced timidly to begin knocking. Our shy reservations couldn’t have been more wrong – our first efforts were greeted with two insanely smiley people who took one glance and ushered us into their home, as if we had been the long lost family they were waiting for.

Juan and his wife Juana asked nothing of us, openly let us into their home, and shared a part of their honest lives with five eternally thankful strangers. My buddy and I were shown to a barn-like shack standing opposite the main house across the courtyard. Inside the thick, mud walls stood a sturdy bed stuffed with straw and covered with a beautiful handmade patchwork quilt. Juan and Juana were busy preparing dinner – there was just time. We ran down to the lakeside and caught the dying sun retreating behind the water’s edge. The last rays stretched across the dark, looming sky, infecting every cloud with a thick red poison. The blackness chased all colour away and shadow soon poured over every standing thing, marking its territory with sharp defiance. Witnessing such an unearthly transformation left me feeling chilled and numb. With Nature’s immeasurable power reinforced before us, we marched solidly back up the hill, an unacknowledged air of appreciation flowing between us.

Image by author.
*Night time artistry*

The mouth-watering smell of piping hot food guided us home, and we fell hastily into the dining room to find a table covered with the dishes of our hungry dreams. All sitting down together, Juan eagerly explained the ingredients of each and every plate, while Juana grinned next to him, blushing at our grateful exclamations and obvious delight. Apart from the old oaken table in the centre of the room, my attention was drawn to a scattering of unusual woollen hats pinned purposefully about the walls. I asked Juan who had made the hats and he swelled with pride, explaining that it was traditional for the men to knit their own hats and pass on the skill to their sons. It was a task for the men alone and they carried it out with dedicated honour.

When I asked about their children Juan and Juana spoke fondly of three grown-up boys who had left home long ago in search of success and fortune. I pictured modern men caught up in the whirlwind of progression, with responsibilities of their own that may not include the once essential priorities of their parents. As I imagined the future of this family and their farm, I couldn’t help wondering who would be here to take care of this rosy couple in their twilight years. I longed that just part of their irreplaceable goodness would be remembered and reflected in their children’s eyes, and that somehow, a part of their lifestyle could be preserved and continued, not left to busy minds and soon to be forgotten.

Image by author.
*Juan peeps through the window*

After passing the soundest night’s sleep possible, I awoke feeling recharged and positive – the unsettling events of the previous day had merged into my forgotten dreams. My buddy and I joined our barn-bed comrades in a hearty breakfast before rushing down to the lakeside to see what had become of our missing hosts. We rounded the sloping bend of the hill to see Juan coming into shore, his little rowing boat hardly visible under high piles of reeds, and Juana leading two donkeys towards him. It seemed the reeds had invaluable uses for all those living by the lake, and Juan had collected these to repair a hole in the stable roof. We tied the reeds in bundles and Juana balanced them, one by one, on top of the wobbly animals. I expected her to make two trips, but Juana placed unquestionable faith in the bowing pins of the donkeys, one of which looked set to topple when he started to climb back up the rocky path. Nevertheless, the patient creatures plodded safely home and I followed behind them, a pleasant feeling emerging from my usefulness in this small task.

Image by author.
*Juana looks on*

Saying goodbye was much harder to accomplish, and I envied the three American’s extra day to explore. We gave Juan and Juana the parting gifts of a pineapple and a big bag of oranges and Juana modestly changed into her most cherished traditional dress for a last photograph. It felt like being forced to leave a home we had known forever, and for that moment nothing could be distinguished between us. Juan found us a local bus to take us back to Puno and I swallowed my determined tears, waving until all were out of sight.

Image by author.
*Time to say goodbye*

The ride back to reality produced yet another adventure. We boarded a delapidated minibus heading back to Puno, and were lucky to be one of the first to embark, winning two of a possible fifteen seats. The number of seats did not, however, limit the number of passengers, and I looked on in fascinated amazement as man after woman after child scrambled onto this vortex-like vehicle. Everybody held their breath and leaned in as the last person managed to slide the door behind them, sealing us all in. Once we had filled every air pocket with body, our driver thought it an excellent idea to race home, competing with a similarly run-down, over-stuffed minibus. As we swerved and screeched across the single lane track, my attention was grabbed by the dead sheep lolling about on the roof of our opponent. Its tongue caught clumsily between its clamped jaws and its rag-doll legs becoming entangled amongst the rest of the luggage, witnessing such raw, dinner delicacies in this compromising state reinforced my growing vegetarianism.

At last the door groaned open and the people-blob oozed onto the dusty street. After untangling ourselves, and retrieving our luggage from the pile of rusty watering cans, bulging bin bags and splintered broomsticks, we turned to face the bustle. It felt strange to be back in this micro-metropolis. Cars tumbled along next to rickety horse-drawn carts, children dashed in and out waving sticks or clutching puppies, and a thin stream of people found their way, eyes buried in thoughts or in those of their companion. A glowing red sign called out to my buddy and I, so we hauled our bags to the nearby café and sat in contemplative silence.

The imprint of progression, even here in small-town Puno, stood out in stark contrast to that of the untouchable innocence far across the lake. I gazed at the people around me with new insight. Perhaps they were torn between urban ambitions and rural obligations…perhaps they had parents like Juan and Juana, living away in the country, waiting for a visit or a letter. I sighed a smile, I was spellbound. Inspired by these easy-going, gentle people and concerned for their preservation, I only hoped they could remain just so. We finished our drinks; it was time to discover the bus station. As we snaked along the busy pavement I closed my eyes momentarily and there, in the darkness of my eyelids, were their beaming smiles. I knew I would never see their faces again, but those smiles would be there to keep me company in trying times. I had the wisdom and kindness of Juan and Juana, and their country-folk, etched onto my being forevermore – a quiet reminder of more uncomplicated times.

Machu Pichu,as being a Peruvian word, means “old peak”. Additonally, it is referred to “The lost city of Incas”. The history of the city dates back to Inca civilization. According to the records, it was built in the middle of the 15th century by Incas.However, it is the known that natural inhabitants abandoned the city and migrated to remote cities in the following 100 years. Even though it is not exact what caused this migration, researchers guess what the reason is weather conditions or economical problems.

Machu Pichu is now an archeological site where many researchers, scientists, archeologists, historians and university students have done excavations. They have found many things related to Inca culture during these excavations. Some of the buldings like temples in excavation area is colossal and made up of very huge stone blocks. It is not yet understood how these stones are carried to Machu Pichu and put one top of the another. This mystery is still unsolved.

The lost city was discovered by Hiram Bingham with the assist of 1200 people. Researches have shown that the city was seperated into three areas, urban,religious and agricultural namely. Whereas religious areas which were located on the hills, agricultural and urban regions were placed on the plains.

To naturalists, it is one of the most enigmatic and scentic places of the world with its gorgeous nature. Colossal temples are like a witness of glorious Inca’s splendor.This legendary city has been visited by 2000 people daily.

And finally, as I do everytime, our visual tour starts after this brief introduction.

Intihuatana stone (Hitching post of the sun ) was used for astronomical purposes by Incas. It was used to measure the angle of sun and determine when the solstices and equinoxes happen.

Temple of sun was shaped like a semicircle on a solid granite block .This is the most famous one of ancient Machu Pichu ruins. To chronicles, it was initially designed by precious stones and even gold. The building has two trapezoidal windows.

Temples of three windows are located on the eastern part of religious area. In the construction of this, enormous blocks were used and fitted into proper sections meticulously.

Ruins of legendary city of Machu Pichu. Good examples of urbanization.

Our Peruvian guide Wayo is at the door of our van, just returned from a nearby tienda (store) with an innocuous pink bag in his hand. He hands over the bag and invites me to take a look inside. I open it to reveal the small green leaves within, each about the size of my thumb.

“With these leaves,” he states, only somewhat tongue-in-cheek, “you will have the energy of the Incas. You will ride all the way to the ends of the empire, like the chasquis who ran these trails hundreds of years ago.” He is as giddy as a schoolboy. I suspect he has already sampled the bag’s contents.

In my hand is a healthy portion of coca leaf, enough to land me seven hard years in a Canadian penitentiary. I am holding a plant with an illustrious and controversial history. Unlike its infamous derivatives crack and cocaine, coca has therapeutic properties and is held sacred by the inhabitants of the Andes. For thousands of years, they have used the coca leaf to improve digestion, relieve headaches and mitigate the negative effects of altitude. In spite of this it is feared and outlawed by most governments of the Western world.

I take a wad of leaves, give a short prayer of thanks as is Inca custom, and wrap the leaves around a small piece of llipta – the hardened ash of the quinoa plant. The whole package takes up an uncomfortable and intrusive residence in my cheek.

The juice slowly seeps into my mouth; it is is pungent yet pleasing. My tongue is buzzing and my cheek soon goes numb, but I feel a surge of energy. My 3 riding companions, observers until now, tentatively follow suit.

“Welcome to Peru!” gushes Wayo enthusiastically when we are done.

“Now we are ready to ride.”

We are six mountain bikers high in the Andes of Peru, intent on reaching Machu Picchu via the system of trails laid out by the Incas centuries ago.

Despite living in the Canadian Rockies for a decade, I’m not prepared for the sheer scale of the Andes. These are mountains, in the most imposing sense of the word. The Andes are the longest mountain range in the world, and Peru contains more than a thousand mountains over 5,000 m above sea level.

Canada has five.

We are at 3,200 m in Andahuaylas province – the pradera de los celajes, prairie of coloured clouds. Today we will get our first taste of the main Inca trail – the Camino Real, or Royal Road.

Among the many roads and trails constructed in pre-columbian South America, the Inca road system of Peru was the most extensive. Traversing the Andes and reaching heights of over 5,000 m, the trails connected the regions of the Inca Empire, covering approximately 22,500 km and providing access to over three million km2 of territory. The Camino Real was the most important of these “roads”, with a length of 5,200 km (3,230 mi).

The trail isn’t really a “trail” in the mountain biking sense of the word – the sport is still fairly new and undeveloped here. It’s more like an intricate Brobdingnanian web of meandering and intersecting foot- and animal paths. The 1,500 m descent is as long and challenging as anything I’ve ridden. Loose rock and exposure force me to concentrate solely on the few metres of trail in front of me. It’s exhilarating – I have to remind myself to stop and take in the awe-inspiring scenery. Halfway down, I briefly lose concentration and fly over the handlebars into the arms of a cactus. It takes Wayo 20 painful minutes to get all of the needles out of my ear.

We pass through villages where dusty Quechua-speaking campesinos (peasants) smile curiously and wave. Farmers wearing the vibrant clothing typical of the Andes harvest potatoes from their fields and sing in the midday sun. By late afternoon I am lost in the rhythms of these awesome mountains.

Racing against the fading sun, we pull into the remote town of Huancarama in total darkness. The rock-hard mattresses of the El Gordito (Little Fat Man) hotel are as welcoming as waterbeds. In my exhausted, satiated state I fall asleep within minutes, grinning and fully clothed.

Two days and 170 km of Inca trail later, I awake under a spectacular stone wall with a splitting headache. I look up in a laboured effort to get my bearings. Last night… Cusco? Mmm-hmm…. Discos? Yes. Cervezas? Many.

Have I passed out in one of Cusco’s narrow stone alleyways?

I survey the scene once more. No, I am under two inches of warm blankets in a cozy hotel room. A hotel room with an extraordinary 10-foot-highInca wall.

Welcome to Cusco, the former capital of the Inca Empire.

There’s something tragic about this bustling colonial city. Under Francisco Pizarro the Spanish massacred most of the city’s Inca inhabitants and constructed grand cathedrals and mansions on top of the original architecture. Much of this architecture would have remained hidden forever had a massive earthquake in 1950 not unearthed much of the original stonework. The Inca were renowned masons whose work still defies explanation. Many of the city’s alleys are lined with detailed and ornate brickwork; stone jaguars and serpents watch menacingly as tourists pass by oblivious to their stares.

Despite the crush of tourists it is easy to befriend the locals of Cusco; I spend my afternoon drinking tea with a craft vendor selling his wares in a quiet back alley. That evening I give in to one of Cusco’s surprisingly professional $10 massages and dine on cuy al horno. The roasted guinea pig is a Peruvian delicacy and is delicious despite being somewhat tough and stringy.

I eschew a second round of discos and retire to my room under my personal Inca wall. I fall asleep while the throb of electronic music fills Cusco’s main square.

The next day begins with a massive breakfast of fruit salad, eggs, homemade pan, and generous doses of mate de coca, or coca tea. The tea arrives without asking. It is ritual in Peru, as normal as coffee is in North America. After two cups of this heady brew I am buzzing once again. It relieves my altitude-induced headache and fills me with energy for the day’s upcoming adventures.

Soon we are on our bikes following the Urubamba River through the Sacred Valley, once one of the most resource-rich areas of the Inca Empire. Riding through this valley today, it is not hard to see why; the earth here is a deep crimson red and the crops are bountiful, unlike the hardscrabble terraced agriculture we’ve seen elsewhere in Peru.

The riding is majestic; around us 20,000-foot peaks tower above the small villages dotting the pastoral landscape. Russo, our Quechua-speaking guide, teaches us a few phrases that endear us to the locals. He is the Peruvian national cross-country mountain bike champion and thus somewhat of a hero in these parts.

The trail drops sharply into a narrow canyon. The exposure is scary but electrifying. We stop at an Inca mine where salt is still mined today the same way it was thousands of years ago. From there the trail descends once again to the Urubamba River.

To protect the wealth of this valley the Inca built a series of fortresses, most of which survive to this day. One of these former fortresses is Ollantaytambo, now a quaint village of 2,000 that we enter via cobblestone road. Ollantaytambo is surrounded by ruins and is one of the main jumping-off points for the journey to Machu Picchu and host to hordes of adventure-seeking tourists.

Tomorrow we go to The Lost City.

The 7:30 a.m. train ride through the Sacred Valley is both sublime and sordid. Lush green mountains line both sides of the Urubamba River while hordes of trekkers, guides and porters line the tracks. UNESCO has threatened to withdraw Machu Picchu’s World Heritage Site status unless Peru gets a handle on the throngs of people crowding the Inca trail and leaving masses of litter and pollution in their wake.

At Aguas Calientes, a small town at the base of Machu Picchu, we crowd onto the bus in a heightened state of anticipation. The energy is palpable among the travelers on board this spiritual express.

“Machu Picchu,” I yell as we ascend. “We’re going to Machu Picchu!” With iconic images of the storied citadel etched into my memory, I can hardly believe that I’ll actually be there within minutes.

We arrive at the gates of the Lost City amid a crush of tourists. Leaving our guide behind, we quickly lose ourselves in Machu Picchu’s serpentine mazes. Despite the tourists and the cost of getting here, it is worth every cent. My fellow travelers and I look at each other knowingly and remain silent as we explore, aware of the futility of words in a place such as this.

Theories abound as to the ancient city’s purpose. What is certain is that it was abandoned for over 400 years when American Hiram Bingham “discovered” it in 1911. I look out over Machu Picchu and imagine how Bingham must have felt after hacking his way through the jungle to discover this otherworldly place.

We climb the nearby peak of Huayna Picchu in the pouring rain – typical weather for this area. Upon reaching the summit, I find a place away from the tourists on an outcropping of rock. Sitting silently in the mist and rain, I gaze out over the surreal landscape. It is unlike anything I have ever seen before.

“Machu Picchu,” I whisper silently to myself.

For the Incas, the mountains were gods – apus who could kill by a variety of means: volcanic eruptions, avalanches, and climactic catastrophes.

On our final day in Peru, these violent deities are angry with me: I’m sick and weak, beaten down by the altitude, late nights in Cusco, and long days of riding. It seems the apus are angry with my compatriots as well, so a consensus forms that we should drive to the top of our last day’s ride. We file into the van for the last time as our driver Joselo straps down the bikes. This, Wayo assures us, will be the icing on the cake, our Homerean epic to cap off our Inca journey.

We climb. And climb. And climb… on and on and on. It feels as if we are ascending to the very roof of the world. We pass through rustic villages, past pre-Inca ruins and herds of alpacas. Farmers offer bottles of chicha to our open windows. The air is getting thin.

As we arrive at the start of the trail, I check my altimeter: 13,945 feet, over 4,270 m. It is going to be a long ride, Wayo informs us. The scenery is barren, grey, and forbidding. A few alpacas are the only other living beings in sight. I chew a little harder on my coca and llipta wad and swallow a big mouthful of juice.

I’m nervous.

The trail is epic all right; rocks the size of grapefruits litter the trail and alpacas scurry out of the way as we push our bodies and bikes to their limits. One of our riders narrowly escapes a fall into the river when his front wheel slips on a technical descent. As we descend, we pass through narrow canyons, along Inca irrigation canals, through hamlets virtually untouched by the modern world. It is unlike any ride I have ever done, neatly combining stunning scenery, challenging riding and vibrant culture. It feels as if the Incas foresaw the advent of the mountain bike by a few centuries.

We arrive in the town of Calca soaking wet, covered in dirt and thoroughly spent. Women in traditional garb walk by and stare. Schoolchildren in bright white uniforms giggle and point at our muddy bikes and strange outfits.

The sun has returned; for now the apus are not angry. They have welcomed us into their valleys, their canyons, and their mountains. I smile and reflect on what was, without a doubt, the best mountain bike ride of my life.

I’m changing into dry clothes in the comfort of our van when a hand slaps me on the back. I turn to see Wayo, our perpetually grinning guide. I smile back at my new amigo. It has been an eventful and exciting 10 days since we first met at the airport in Andahuaylas.

“Congratulations, my gringo friend,” Wayo says as he offers an outstretched hand. “Welcome to Peru.”