248 The National Geographic Magazine 



FARMING IN THE WORLD' S ROOF GARDEN 



consisting of maize, chiino, the frozen 

 potato, cholona, dried goat or mutton, 

 and quinua, a cereal which thrives at high 

 altitudes. We passed many little fields 

 brightened by the reddening quinua, its 

 tall stalks waving like corn. The valleys 

 through which we journeyed were nar- 

 row, bordered on either side by steep 

 mountain walls. High up on the hill- 

 sides were cultivated patches, little farms 

 which seemed in danger of falling over 

 into the swiftly flowing river below. This 

 river is the Vilcanota (we had seen its 

 birth back in the snows at the Pass of 

 La Raya) ; beyond Cuzco it is called the 

 Yucay; farther on, the Ucayali, and it is 

 the longest formative branch of the Ama- 

 zon. Our road followed the river's wind- 

 ings and crossed bridges laid by the Colo- 

 nial Spaniards on old Inca foundations. 

 Our first view of these massive stones 

 was at the ruins of the Temple of Vira- 

 cocha, about half a mile from the high- 

 way. One great wall alone remains of 

 this once splendid edifice, said to have 

 been erected by the eighth Inca ruler. 

 We saw many lesser ruins of the ancients 

 before reaching Cuzco — forts, evidently, 

 guarding the approach to the capital. 



We managed to pick up a few words 

 of the Quichua language, which we had 

 need of later on trips beyond Cuzco, 

 where little or no Spanish is spoken. On 

 this main highway Spanish is now the 

 universal tongue, although the Quichuas 

 cling to their own expressive language, 

 and their sullen demeanor shows their 

 hatred for the white man and the half- 

 breed. They speak Spanish when they 

 must, but most ungraciously. 



My pleasantest recollection of this 

 drive of two days is of the early evening, 

 when we heard the shepherds playing on 

 their pipes. From the hillsides where the 

 flocks grazed came the clear notes, monot- 

 onous but sweet, and the music carried 

 me back to Peru's olden days. As we 

 drove through these Andean valleys, 

 past villages and haciendas, each church 

 tower, each touch of a more modern civil- 

 ization, reminded me of one of the saddest 

 histories ever told, of the downfall and 

 slavery of a once contented and prosper- 

 ous people, now broken in spirit, degen- 

 erated ; yet in their hearts there remains 

 a love for their lost idols, a reverence for 

 their old religion. When we at last 

 reached the heights overlooking Cuzco 



