In Search of True Ecotourism
In the shadow of Machu Picchu
by Megan Epler Wood

When I arrived at Machu Picchu, my heart was still in the rain forest. The eye of the black caiman crocodile was still floating within feet of my tiny canoe and flocks of noisy green and red macaws were soaring overhead. I could taste fermented yucca brew and feel the chill of early morning fog lifting from the rivers.

Walking dutifully among the famous ruins, I saw the most famous monument of Inca architecture with a brain that was less entranced by artifacts than by live culture. I was melancholy and asked to be alone after being given the appropriate guided tour. I thought back on my journey; my beloved rain forest friends, the rivers, the candlelit lodges. I refused to leave it all behind and find new inspiration in the dramatic high mountain landscape that dropped thousands of feet in front of me to the rushing Urubamba River.

It is not hard to find things wrong, if one is looking, with Machu Picchu. The town at the base of the ethereal ruins, is a tacky, garbage-strewn gateway, which is growing exponentially as the number of tourists to Peru skyrockets. With the elimination of terrorism throughout the Peruvian highlands, young people by the thousand are once again trekking on the famed Inca trail. The streets of Cusco, the former capital of the destroyed Inca Empire, are filled with fly-by-night tourist outfits ready to sell a three to four day Inca trail trip for as low as $45 dollars. This includes porters who are paid just $5 per day. My guides had already informed me of the problems of burning garbage in the village, and I had heard that the trail was overcrowded. "Follow the toilet paper," one friend advised me about the Inca trail. But, I was not fully aware of the all problems until the next morning.

After a good night sleep, I took the bus up to see the ruins at sunrise. My plan was to hike up to Intipunku, a sunrise observatory on the Inca trail. At the outset, nearly 100 hikers descended upon me carrying small day packs and sleeping bags, making their final push to see the ruins at dawn. Then, about 30 minutes later some 50 porters came pouring down the trail, with big unkempt loads held together with blankets and twine. Wearing traditional Quechua sandals and the hand-loomed orange ponchos and native white bowler hats of the highland peoples, they ran in a military-style jog, passing in synchrony down innumerable stairs at the speed of a slow train. Their bronzed skin calf muscles appeared like rocks beneath short pants, flexing repeatedly with strength beyond imagination. As soon as I caught sight of them, I moved instinctively and rapidly out of their way.

I reached the first outpost on the trail, and chatted with some of the local guides and park guards. I learned that one of the porters on the Inca trail had died the night before. The autopsy indicated that the death was caused by overexertion. In simple terms, he was carrying too much weight. It was terrible to think that this Mecca of spirituality and natural beauty had been the scene of such a crime. The reasons were simple. Too many people were seeking to travel the trail at too low a price. The competition was fierce, there was no regulation, and the tourists were completely unaware of the potential for porter abuse.

I had set out to see the monument of Machu Picchu in the wrong state of mind. But what I had discovered was very unsettling. I could not help but question. Many travelers go to Machu Picchu in search of inspiration. I was a seeker too, but this type of spiritual inspiration was far too removed for me from the reality of the people. I decided to get away from Machu Picchu and visit the homes of the men who carry the weight on the Inca Trail.

The Urubamba River defines the heartland of Inca culture. Ancient terraces and irrigation systems are still used by the Quechua people, who are the descendents of the Inca. All the inhabitants of the valley come from Quechua stock, but only in the upper highlands can the traveler encounter authentic Quechua culture.

I made plans to spend three days wandering highland valleys, as high as 14,000 feet, with my guide and mentor, Marcos Farfan. A local Quechua speaking boy, he is really a man with a spirit as light as his nickname, "Pollo". He is intuitive, reflective and always fun, both with his clients and the Quechua people. Marcos knows everyone and is always laughing and chatting with other guides. His father worked on the electrification of the Urubamba Valley when he was a boy, and he lived near Machu Picchu for 5 or 6 years, speaking Quechua daily with the local people. His devotion to the language is complete, and he would often playfully amuse any passing stranger with a guttural pronouncement, joke or question. The Quechua language is common to most of the people of Cusco and the Urubamba Valley. The younger generation understands it, but most can no longer speak. Marcos is part of a vanguard who seek to protect the language and the heritage of the highland way of life.

After my shocking discovery of the death at Machu Picchu, Marcos and I spent the rest of the day discussing the Quechua way of life. That night we each drank a liter size Cusquena beer, and taste tested a variety of native potato dishes at a local restaurant. He told me that the Quechua eat over 100 different varieties of potato, and that nearly 2000 types are native to the Andes. Potatoes come in gold, red, and even green, each with its own distinctive flavor. After two potato entrees, we were stuffed to the gills, but still found room for the finest hot yellow papas with cold white farmer's cheese. We laughed and joked the night away with the owners of the restaurant and some of the local guides.

I was allowed to sleep until 7 AM the next morning, because we were traveling to Willoq, a traditional farming community that could not receive us until after the men and women had returned from the fields. I slept deeply and was at last absorbed into the Quechua world through the symbolism of my dreams. Remarkably, I sought counsel from a condor, which is a bird known for wisdom in the Inca world. While it did not refuse me, I was informed that the llama should guide me. I looked into the sweet, black liquid eyes of the llama. It signaled me to climb up in the mountains following the polished stones of an Inca pathway. I saw the high mountain horizon well above and could see the llama waiting there for me silhouetted dead center in the brilliant half disk of the rising sun. The snowy Andean peaks soared around the pathway, and the sun turned brilliant gold.

I was breathless from this dream, and had to wash my face with cold water in the morning 4 or 5 times to bring myself back from its powerful imagery and message. I was startled to find myself finding such a magnetic new calling from the highlands. I pondered the relationship between the rain forest and highland cultures of the Andes, and realized that they are deeply interconnected. To this day, exchange between these peoples continues to exist in its most traditional form. On one brisk, sunny Sunday morning, Marcos and I watched Quechua women bartering their potatoes and beans in return for lowland papaya and coca leaves -- a practice that was clearly centuries old.

We went to Willoq and prepared for a meeting with the community of women who are seeking to organize an artisan's cooperative. All the women were dressed in full Quechua tipica, the word for the bright hand-loomed fabrics that are a pastiche of deep oranges, blood red, and electric pinks. Making fabric is an integral part of life in the highlands, and Quechua women can be seen preparing wool for the looms even when walking the streets of Cusco. They use their colorful shawls to carry babies and produce. Their remarkable plate-sized black and orange hats protect their faces from the sun. In towns, they look down at the street as they pass, but in the countryside their fetching black eyes often catch you with a quick bouncing greeting.

Waiting for our meeting to begin, we all sat on the ground in front of the school, shyly looking at each other and watching the many youngsters toddle about. As soon as the meeting began, the latest business for the artisan's cooperative was discussed with Marcos in Quechua. An interchange with other more experienced communities in the Puno region was being organized, and several women's leaders from Willoq were to travel with Marcos's company, Peruvian Odyssey, to the town of Puno, on Lake Titicaca, later that week.

I was then given the opportunity to explain why I had come to visit. I described my interest in visiting local communities in clear, slow Spanish. Marcos translated, and I continued. I told them that I believed that communities like Willoq could retain important wisdom for the future of humankind. From everything I had been told, pure highland cultures were threatened and on the decline.

Marcos had already explained to me that alcoholism is severely undermining traditional culture throughout the highlands. The women never drink. But many households are abandoned by men who fall prey to the temptation of drinking the unpotable alcohol that is being sold in the villages by unscrupulous merchants. Very little has been done by local authorities to regulate this deadly practice. Most tourism dollars earned by the men in the trekking trade become fuel to the flame of alcoholism. Marcos and Peruvian Odyssey are working with the women to construct a new future for Willoq as a way to counteract this tragic trend.

We headed down the mountain from Willoq and stopped for a lunch of baked baby potatoes and home made hot sauce in a traditional highland home. I could hear the soft squeak of guinea pigs being bred for food as I entered into the dark thatched adobe home. Outside the men were busy making new earthen bricks from a simple wooden mold. As my eyes adjusted to the warm fire, which is the only household light, I could see alpaca skins lining the beds where the family sleeps on rough platforms, and the provisions for cooking hanging on twine from the roof. I was later to see a replica of such a home in Ecuador, and was startled to realize that this way of life has been preserved for nearly 1000 years.

Farther down the mountain we came upon a group of women and men, who were lunching in the fields after working on their potato crops. We joined the group who were sitting in a circle, and they kindly shared toasted corn and potatoes laid out in handmade cloth blankets. We basked in the warm Andean mid- day sun and thankfully shared the abundance of their harvest. In return, Marcos gave them bread and fruit, which they accepted with delight. I sat behind one small girl who kept passing me potatoes to eat and looking shyly into my eyes. Finally, she moved to include me in their circle and they all encouraged me to help myself to their communal meal. I ate more toasted corn and reveled in its earthy, wholesome flavor.

After a short walk to our waiting van, we finally rode down to the Urubamba Valley carrying 3 villagers from small towns high above Willocq. Marcos joked with them and sang Quechua songs, and we all sat joyfully riding into the valley. Though I was tired, I was now anticipating the overnight trip we were preparing to take in the next two days. I asked if I would see llamas. Sure enough, herds of llamas and alpacas graze in pastures above 12,000 feet. I would indeed be hiking among them the very next day. Marcos told me I would cross the high pass of Lares and see glacial lakes and snowy mountains on all sides. From there, I would enter into a valley almost exactly like my dream and leave behind the shadow of Machu Picchu.

Megan Epler Wood is President of The Ecotourism Society. She is on a one-year sabbatical to investigate ecotourism projects in the tropical forests of Latin America. You can contact the author via email: MEGAN@together.net.

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