My 'crook', in this case is of course the bus up the mountain, which I rise, excitedly, at five thirty to catch. M is a true pilgrim and walks the final distance to lay his stone in reverence to the mountain in all its terrible beauty and splendour - and joins me as I enter the gates of Machu Picchu, the once lost Inca city itself. He has entered via the sun gate, through which, on 21st June, a single ray of sun shines directly onto a stone in the sun temple at the other side of the complex, casting a triangular shadow. The sun gate is far up on the adjoining mountainside so he has walked a long way down, making his descent into Machu Picchu, long before I blink my way through, and am reconciled in his arms. He hasn't showered or shaved for four days and has been walking since three am, but he has never looked better for it. When you have travelled 100% in each other's company 24 hours of the day for nearly a year, it is quite something to be apart for two days. I wonder, having won through on the challenge presented initially by the overwhelming contact, whether we might be facing a different challenge when we get home. Will we find ourselves temporarily unhinged by the necessity to be apart?
I suspect not, in our nine years together we have been used to being apart for a normal amount of the day for eight. We'll sink back into it fine. But it's an interesting thought. I wonder how much we might have to right an internal urge to turn to the other for guidance in life's smaller challenges. Will I be fighting the urge to call him when I face an urgent deadline at work, or it's raining outside and I forgot my umbrella? These are the level of our daily challenges back home. Most of the people we have met on this journey would laugh at the thought of them.
I am delaying the inevitable. The necessity to attempt to describe Machu Picchu. It is difficult to do it justice, and you will have seen the iconic pictures already, but essentially, what I am looking at, as I pull away from M and focus properly, is a pointed green mountain, sheathed in ribbons of white cloud, which firms the backdrop to what is still, very clearly, a city. The Inca city of Machu Picchu, is built of white grey stone and composed of steps, triangular roofs, and a complex of what were temples, living dwellings, storehouses and royal palaces, and which are surprisingly easy to imagine as they must have been, a hive of activity - and an enormous amount of work. The city ranges up into the side of the mountain we stand on, surrounded by further green jagged mountains, giving it natural protection, and a reason why it could remain undiscovered for so many years.
Machu Picchu was first discovered by a farmer, who stumbled upon it, carved his name in a couple of stones - and went away again. The whole place was completely overgrown. That was early 1900's. It wasn't until some years later, in 1911, that the American Anthropologist, Hiram Bingham, befriended a local indigenous community, and gained their trust enough to be granted sight of this overgrown ruin. At that time there were people living there, scraping a living from the mountainside, keeping llamas and alpacas, and living simply, as many people in Peru still do, washing in a bowl of water each morning, and using two sticks crossed in the open doorway to signify a need for privacy, doors not being something felt necessary in a house. Hiram Bingham, not knowing initially what he had found, gave instructions and paid money for the site to be cleared and the greenery stripped away, and returned later, having done more research. He looked, says our guide, exactly like Indiana Jones and in fact may have inspired the character, right down to his khakis and trade mark hat.
On careful investigation of the site, the predominance of females in the skeletons uncovered, and the existence of ancient chronicles detailing a religious site known for being a centre of female virginity, which was a three day walk from a particular white stone beside waterfall, all of which chimed with the location and layout, Hiram Bingham realised what he had discovered was a place of key importance and religious significance to the Incas.
Indeed the site remains sacred, our guide is very clear on the rules of the site. We must not take 'silly' photos, shout, whistle, use profanities or remove our clothes. Which totally spoils all my plans for the morning.
Joking aside, it rather amazes me that these rules are necessary at all. There is an atmosphere here, a respect due, if not for the Inca religion, for the surrounding landscape.
So Machu Picchu may have been one of the most important religious places for the Incas, but is it the fabled Last Inca City?
Probably not. Writings and research seems to suggest that we haven't yet found the Last Inca City, the final stronghold. Rumoured to be scattered with gold and lost treasure, historians and bounty hunters continue to search.
"It is probably somewhere here," says our guide, gesturing to the vast mountainous countryside, "buried beneath the trees."
I stare out at the landscape, which is quite mysterious enough on its own, without the suggestion of a buried city. Maybe the Last Inca City is buried there, concealed from greedy eyes and from search planes by nature. Maybe there us still an Inca people, living in secret under clever cover of jungle canopy.
I look out at the hordes of people who, despite the size of the site, seem to gather and push into one space, forming queues and crushes, and there is a little part of me rooting for those fictional remaining Incas and hoping they are left in peace.
Being human and therefore capable of enormous double standards I leave these thoughts in order to elbow my way to the front to hear what our guide is saying, as he starts to walk us around the site.
He shows us a section of the walls, where the earth has been dug away to reveal the foundations of the Inca walks. They literally go down some six metres. Bear in mind that this is down into the side of a mountain it is no small feat, and explains how the city could survive for so long.
We see a water mirror, round shapes of stone designed to catch or hold water, and another similar shaping of stone, this time in what is believed to be the half finished shape of a llama, designed to reflect the night sky. In the Inca world view the night sky was crucial, the milky way and accompanying constellations are very clear here, but it was not the stars that the Incas saw creatures and symbols in, it was the dark spaces, forming a serpent, a llama, possibly a condor, and a man.
We walk through what is believed to be the King's Palace. The King had the privilege of private toilet arrangements. Generally, the Incas would use a plate or bowl for their ablutions, similar to a chamber pot, which they would scatter with ash to prevent infection and carry to a hole for the purpose a little way from the main city, bury it. And years later reuse it as fertiliser. But the King had a private room in which to take care of his business, and a handy servant or two to carry it away. I wonder if that servant felt himself honoured to carry the Monarchs poop, or was just as disgusted as the rest of us.
We are told of the Temple of the Condor, made in the shape of a condor, with long flat stones for wings. The condor was believed to be the messenger of the Gods. The Incas would place offerings on those wings and leave them there, for the condor to fly to their heavenly recipients (though in fact it was more complicated than that as the Inca Gods were in and of the nature, and thus not solely situated in one, inaccessible kingdom.) The Incas were famous for believing only what they could see. That was the conquering Spanish's greatest challenge. Inca Gods manifested in rocks and mountains, lightning and animals. Catholicism relies heavily on saints, given reverence through stories unseeable and unprovable, and with a heavenly power not perceivable by man. It is unsurprising that the eventual syncretism that was achieved utilised icons and models of the saints and the trinity, many with a distinctly indigenous look to them. As I have said before, stories are constantly reinterpreted. They must be, or they will lose their power. And what is a story but a means to interpret a deeper truth?
As we have found with so many Inca sites though, Machu Picchu was not solely religious, but incorporated affair amount of trade and commerce. The two things were not considered to be opposing forces, but complementary to each other. We go to see the 'Inca Bridge', a rather boring name for what it is, and Fred (pseudonym), one of our trek companions christened it 'Bridge of the Gods' which stuck. The Inca Bridge is literally a rickety barrow bridge across from one mountain to another, with sheer, uninterrupted drops to the side. Just looking at it makes my stomach twitch. This path was crossed by traders, travellers and pilgrims frequently. I gulp, looking at the crumbling stones and the place where the stones are replaced with a plank of wood, which could be removed to prevent unwanted intruders, abs wonder how many lives were lost there.
Thankfully, it is not open to tourists. Which is lucky because M is itching to try it.
The heat, given the total lack of shade and the necessity to move slowly because of the queues, begins to get the better of both of us and we reluctantly leave, making our way past nonchalant llamas and posing tourists, for lunch, the train and coach journey hone to Cusco, a much needed bath, and bed.
I reflect that, whilst Machu Picchu is amazing, it us really the trek that makes it special. This is an example of a place for which the magic is truly in the journey, and not only the destination. I never got to lay my stone on the mountain or to complete my pilgrimage, but guess what?
In my bag there is still a small piece of pinkish grey stone. It is still with me. It will be with me when I return to England and will take pride of place somewhere in our new home. But only temporarily. One day I'm coming back and I am going to complete the Inca trail. And I will lay my stone, even if it's been years in the journeying, at the top of the mountain.
It will be the longest pilgrimage ever. But I think the mountain will understand.
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