OK, so Ollantaytambo is this little town nestled in the Urubamba river valley, at the foot of massive ruins as well as many big green mountains. I think I covered that already. It's charming, but I've been here way long enough to appreciate its Incan architecture and local color, and am starting to go a little stir-crazy. Sure, they have decent (and cheap) internet, but if I wanted to sit at a screen for six hours a day, I needn't have travelled this far. (Come to think of it, that's pretty much my plan for the rest of my vacation when I get back.)
So on a whim, I walked into a no-doubt fully unlicensed tour operator off the main plaza and inquired about a trip to some nearby ruins that I'd heard about. Irbin, the guy at the desk (and I'm pretty sure sole employee, as the company bears his name) was happy to outline the prices. And for only 10 soles more, instead of being driven by taxi to the ruins, I could tour them via mountain bike. I think you can probably guess what I chose.
Irbin said to return at 11:30 y nos vamos, so I decided to check out the local museum.
It's in an old colonial mansion, and the tour buses hadn't yet arrived, so the place was abandoned. I lounged on a chair and imagined myself a 16th Spanish lord, overseeing the corn harvest and seeking out an Incan princess to marry and solidify my land claim. (I'm telling you, the mustache has a mind of its own!)
Irbin asked me if I rode a bike well. "Oh, Si!" I replied, because, you know, how hard could it be? After all, it's just like, well, riding a bike, right?
He loaded up the taxi and off we went, speeding through the Sacred Valley's lush landscapes, climbing to the start point because as Irbin assured me, it was gonna be all downhill.
The first stop is the ruins at Moray. I'd read about these, and they're kind of off the beaten path, so not a lot of tours go there, but I had to come see them for myself.
So, the Incans found these mini-valley type things up in the mountains. Depressions in the earth, caused by natural erosion.
But so they noticed that the temperature at the bottom of the depressions was different than at the top. So they built these circular terraces at different levels, so they could test different crops at different temperatures!
Yeah! It's like a giant agricultural laboratory!
Oh, and the way you get down from level to level?
These things,
which apparently are set at points to mark the seasons at sunrise.
Anyways, I thought it was cool. At the museum this morning they were saying that some of the agricultural and irrigation techniques the Incans developed are coming back into vogue in the valley, so maybe people are finally starting to learn from the past.
Anyhow, when I got back up to the surface, Irbin was off, so I had to follow.
Now friends, Irbin is not a liar. This trail WAS all downhill, but I thought he meant down streets, or at least paved roads. No, we were biking over rocky mountain trails, dodging burro droppings and trying not to careen off the edge.
Oh, and did I mention that my bike, big enough for an average Peruvian, was so tiny for me that pedaling while seated involved my knees banging into my nipples?
But, I was starting to get it! I was not only keeping up, but catching air, avoiding pitfalls, braking and pedaling in sync with the terrain...yeah, there was a good half hour there where I was "in the zone", as the extreme athletes say.
And then, just when I was starting to think that maybe I knew what I was doing, a rock reared up in front of my front tire. My brain knew I should just ride over it, let the tire and the shocks absorb the impact, but my instincts kicked in and I squeezed the brake hard. I leaned back and landed flat on top of the bike in a little ravine, scratching myself up pretty bad and denting the wheel in the process. Yeah, it hurt. But not as much as the knowledge that it was all my fault, and it shouldn't have happened.
After doing his best to repair the damaged wheel, Irbin suggested we get off and walk during the more steep and rocky bits.
Ostensibly for my safety, but I think he was just worried I would do some more damage to his bike.
(I don't feel that bad for the damage, and certainly didn't offer to reimburse him, because I'm pretty sure he way overcharged me for the tour.)
These are the salt pans of Maras, site of back-breaking low-paying labor that has continued to this day done the same way. The salt water fills the pans, then the water evaporates, and the family that owns that pan collects the salt, puts in burlap sacks on the backs of mules and walks over those same mountain trails I was just cruising on, to sell the salt for pennies a bag. And I thought my job was hard.
On the ride back to town, I found out Irbin competes professionally in addition to giving tours, and then he jokingly said I was the worst mountain biker he's ever led. At least, I think he was joking. Prick.
Here I am showing off the battle scars. You can't see it, but my arm's all cut up too.
A cold beer and a pizza (I earned it) later, and here I am, knees aching and pants ruined, conveying the whole story to you all. I need a shower badly, and then I should get some rest, because for some reason I agreed to go white-water rafting with Irbin tomorrow.
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