Sights in the Andean Highlands 



613 



horse stumbled, and I came back to earth 

 a dusty little Andean traveler longing 

 for any moth-eaten posada where I could 

 rest my weary head. 



We found the posada in the village of 

 Urubamba — every other name ends in 

 "bamba" or "tambo" in the Quichua 

 country — and it broke all records for un- 

 cleanliness. It wasn't an expensive re- 

 sort, however ; we paid something like 

 seventy cents for our bed, a day's board, 

 and fodder for our animals. On the 

 trails many of the natives speak only the 

 Quichua tongue, but in Urubamba Span- 

 ish is spoken. There are a number of 

 merchants in the village who buy the 

 produce as it comes up from the Lower 

 Yucay Valley and the tropical Valley of 

 Santa Ana, sending it on to Cuzco and 

 to other parts of the highlands. When 

 the tired little burros jogged into town, 

 I was always interested in their cargo. 

 They brought coffee beans, cacao, coco- 

 coca leaves, and tropical fruits. We saw 

 few llamas in Yucay ; the little mountain 

 cousins of the camel are better suited to 

 the highlands. 



From Urubamba we rode down the 

 valley over a trail which follows the 

 winding river, a charming trail bordered 

 by fragrant yellow Spanish broom and 

 many varieties of the cactus plant, shaded 

 by giant willows and pepper trees in 

 ruddy blossom. Passing through peace- 

 ful villages, we came upon curving ter- 

 races and moss-hung ruins, but saw no 

 remains of the wonderful summer- pal- 

 aces. I irreverently suggested that per- 

 haps the Inca kings also yearned at times 

 for "the simple life," and, leaving scep- 

 ters and llautus behind, "camped out" in 

 the restful Valley of Yucay. 



Without palaces the ancients could 

 exist, but not without fortresses, espe- 

 cially in this frontier country near the 

 Andean passes leading to the vast forest 

 which, in other days as now, was inhab- 

 ited by savage tribes. A day's journey 

 from Urubamba is the Fortress of Ollan- 

 taytambo, which guards the lower en- 

 trance of Yucay. A pretty legend is at- 

 tached to the old place. Ollantay, a 

 brave chieftain, was in love with the 



ruler's daughter, Cusi Coyllur, the Joyful 

 Star. Ollantay was not of royal blood, 

 and, being denied his lady love, made 

 war against the Inca. He is said to have 

 built this fortress, which he held for 

 many years. The story ends in the good 

 old way. At the death of the king the 

 lovers were united, and lived happily for- 

 ever after. In truth, the fort was built 

 to safeguard the Inca's domain against 

 the wild tribes of the Montana. 



Ollantaytambo was erected on a spur 

 of a mountain at the meeting place of the 

 Yucay and Patacancha valleys. The 

 outer walls of the fortress zigzag up the 

 hillside, and on the summit are the re- 

 mains of cyclopean walls, beautifully 

 hewn doorways, niched corridors, and 

 great slabs of porphyry supporting a ter- 

 race. There are six of these giant slabs 

 in an upright position, and half way up 

 the mountain side others weighing many 

 tons, which fell by the wayside. These 

 abandoned slabs are called "The Tired 

 Stones." 



With all other travelers who have 

 seen the Inca fortifications, I have never 

 ceased to marvel at these enormous rocks 

 carried to great mountain heights from 

 far-away quarries. I cannot content 

 myself with the explanation given by a 

 Yankee whom we met at a posada in Sic- 

 uani. Four of us, speaking English, 

 brought up the old question, "How were 

 the mighty stones carried great distances, 

 to great heights?" and "Uncle Si" 

 slapped his hand on his knee, hitched up 

 his trousers, spat, and declared, "They 

 done it with a yerb." Artificial stone 

 mixed on the spot with a magic herb, I 

 suppose he meant. Well, he was a wise 

 old Yank! He was traveling around 

 South America trying to sell a patent 

 green paint to cover blackboards — a 

 noble endeavor to save the eyesight of 

 the little Latin Americans. 



There is no posada in the village of 

 Ollantaytambo. The Gobernador, chief 

 magistrate, took us in, but he had no 

 extra beds in his house, and we were 

 obliged to sleep on the dining-room 

 table. At the witching hour of three in 

 the morning we were awakened by the 



