The daughter of Manco Inca lay sprawled on the terrace. The blood spilled by the conquistador's blade soaked slowly into the winter-hardened ground, as above a solitary condor soared, carrying her spirit to the overworld.

Father, I come to you now. Vilcabamba is a broken shell now, and little remains of Cusco's knowledge. Our people are sundered, our Gods scattered, our cities sacked. Our most sacred temples are razed by the Spanish, the holiest stones used to build forts to complete their desecration.

Father, the Inca will soon be no more. Their great steeds outrun us, their thundersticks fill the people with dread and confusion, their guile and dishonor twist and defile. Their power over us is irresistable. Yet we resist still. The Inca will die defiant, and one day our Gods, our tongue, and our culture will rise again.


We saw traditionally dressed farmers past kilometer 82, the start of the Inca Trail, Camino Inka. We saw an Inca town lying in a river valley, abandoned from epidemic. We saw a simple farm filled with healthy animals - chickens, puppies, pigs, donkeys, guinea pigs and an anxious lamb, where we were kindly hosted for lunch. We made camp early that day, and slept well that night.

We climbed on the second day, and saw Dead Woman's Pass grow slowly closer, as the air grew thinner and the path steeper. We stumbled but pushed on. Dizzyness filled my head as we neared 4000m above sea level, my steps slow and sluggish, breath laboured. Panting, we reached Dead Woman's Pass. We tasted an exhileration difficult to describe. We descended again, then climbed towards the second pass. We saw a small Temple high up the mountain, surrounded by the glory of the Andes. We reached the top of the second pass and found stone cairns, tributes to the sacred stone from which Apu Qun Tiqsi Wiraqutra created man.

We slept after a day of trial in the freezing cold of the high places, surrounded by the awesome beauty of the Andes, snow-capped peaks running behind valleys of rising cloud-forest mountains. On our third day we climbed to the final pass and began our descent down 1000m of steps of the Inca's long, winding trail, passing a huge terraced farming area before reaching our last camp. We saw another abandoned town, a maze of stone on the cut mountain side, eerily quiet. We imagined the Inca before the Spanish came, wondered if they were happy in this place. They were masters of agriculture, so were probably well fed with a variety of foods - the Inca domesticated more than half of today's vegetables. They were part of an Empire where there was no need for police or jails, because they were a socialist society where nobody wanted for food or shelter and everybody followed the basic laws. They lived in high places, protected by awesome mountains. We think they were happy, until the Spanish came.

On the forth day we walked a path climbing towards Intipunku, the Sun Gate of Machu Picchu, in the shroud of night's end. As dawn touched us, we saw from Intipunku the great sacred city itself, nestled on the saddle of a great ridge, Huayna Picchu soaring above it like a great guardian. We wandered through the deserted houses and temples, alongside a thousand others. We saw a city abandoned by its people, a city the Spanish did not find, lost to antiquity until a Peruvian farmer stumbled across it at the beginning of the 20th century.

We knew the Inca's glory, wisdom and humanity. It was overwhelming.


More tomorrow...  ¶ 7:15 PM