shanmonster | Pilgrimage to Machu Picchu: Part Three

The Q'allaqasa citadel at Pisac was our next stop. Like all the sites we saw in the Sacred Valley, the citadel overlooked the Urubamba River. The river was important for more than just the water and fertile land around it. It had spiritual significance to the Incas, and was viewed as an extension of the Milky Way and the mountain peaks.

[Q'allaqasa terraces overlooking the Urubamba]

Though I'd had glimpses of ruins in the hills of the Sacred Valley, this would be my first time setting foot on an Incan archaeological site. I was pretty excited. I also desperately had to pee. One of the side effects of altitude acclimatization is dehydration, and I'd been drinking a lot of water. Now, when I'd been on tour in England with our fantastic tour guide, Steve, he'd always told us before we got to any site where we could find toilets. Magda, our guide for the Sacred Valley, offered no such information.

She remained silent for most of the trip to Q'allaqasa, and by the time we came to a stop in the bus, my bladder was fit to burst. We got out of the bus, and the first thing I did was look for a place to go to the bathroom. I couldn't see any signs. I saw a magnificent view, and fascinating ruins, but my bladder was the priority.

I tried to catch her attention to ask her where the bathrooms were, but she steadfastly avoided my attempts.

Around us, I could see other groups. The tour guides each held a pennant overhead, so the people in their groups knew where to assemble. Magda didn't bother with anything like that. She didn't even wear a brightly-coloured jacket. She blended in with all the other tourists, and took off down the path. I followed her, side-stepping colourfully-dressed Quechuan merchants selling coca leaves, bandannas, hand-woven water bottle carriers, and fruit. Magda motored along at high speed, passing a reproduction adobe building with a Pampas grass thatched roof at the park entrance, stopping suddenly on one of the terraces. She proceeded to lecture to us about the site. I couldn't hear much of what she said. Her voice wasn't that loud, and the background noise of crowds was drowning her out, as was my bladder discomfort.

She started onward again. I nimbly sidestepped Captain Snotty, who sounded like a swimmer with a loogy caught in his snorkle, and asked Magda where the bathrooms were. She gave an impatient gesture. "Just up ahead."

Ah, good.

Relieved that we were finally being taken to the bathrooms, I stood by Kyle again. I looked at the incredible view. I looked up at the remnants of grain storage houses, and at the citadel remains on the hill above me. I overheard Magda say we'd have 20 minutes to explore. That wasn't much time at all! But then, rather than point us to the bathroom, she started lecturing again.

I was on the verge of pissing myself, at this point, and was doing an unattractive little peepee dance. On the terraces far below, I could see men doing another sort of dance. They stomped around in a patch of mud. I presumed they were making adobe.

By the time she'd stopped talking, another five minutes had passed, and we only had fifteen minutes to relieve ourselves and explore the site. My frantic scanning eyes had finally found a sign pointing to the bathrooms, and I left at a speedy clip. The closer I got, the further behind my nose wanted to stay. My nostril hairs were practically curling from the ammonia stench of urine.

Before I left for Peru, I'd done research and learned that many of the toilets are "primitive." This was to be my introduction to the squat toilet. As far as squat toilets go, these ones were more basic than most I encountered. I saw a line of what looked like outhouses with concrete floors. Each had a hole in the floor about the diameter of a coconut. A smiling, elderly man with a bucket stood outside, and every time someone came out of one of the privies, he'd step in and rinse the floor with water. There was no toilet paper.

Thank goodness I'm good at squats! My CrossFit training was paying off, and I peed like a champ, not sprinkling myself at all. I can't help but wonder how people who don't squat regularly fare with squat toilets. It can't be pretty.

When Kyle finished (he is NOT a fan of squat toilets), we dashed up to the citadel for our appallingly short visit.

I was just as interested with the local flora as I was the stonework.

After exploring only the tiniest bit of the site, we had to dash back to find the bus. The parking lot was filled with buses parked in a rather disorganized fashion. As usual, horns were blasting. Buses filled with tourists backed perilously close to the threshold of the precipice, and impatient drivers edged closer and closer to them while people waved to everyone from the passenger windows. I watched one man wave at me, huge smile beaming, from the back of a bus. His seat was over a sheer drop off, and the guy waved at me in glee, not caring he was only a few inches from sure death.

Kyle and I waded through this miasma of buses until we found our own bus. I felt a surge of relief that it was facing the right way, and we wouldn't need to turn around in this mess. Honey Badger Driver looked at us, and gestured to the open door. We clambered in and took our seats. The other tourists came along shortly afterwards and boarded in silence. Magda didn't say anything, either. We drove down the hill to the town of Pisac where we would get to do another shopping excursion.

Neither Kyle nor I wanted to do any shopping. We wanted to save our sols. We admired the enormous Pisonay tree which dominated the central plaza. The tree was filled with scarlet tubular flowers. The Pisonay tree was considered sacred to the Incas.

We encountered a brilliant money-making scheme. Some of the Quechuan woman and girls put on beautiful handwoven and embroidered clothes and carry around adorable little lambs. They charge tourists for the photo opportunity.

Kyle failed to resist and snapped this picture. We both scritched the lambs behind the ears. We cared far more than the lambs did.