Threads of Peru Blog

In recent blog posts, I’ve focused on the mountains around Cusco and how they inspire Andean art with their ruggedness, beauty, and natural life. Last week I pushed even deeper into the mountains and into the Sacred Valley on a guided trip with Thread’s partner, Apus Peru ($15 from each trek with Apus goes to support Thread’s projects).

I’ve known for a long time that I wanted to write about my first visit to the Sacred Valley. The Valley itself is of great importance to archeology and anthropology alike, but it was the mountains around it that interested me the most. That’s because those mountains are the same mountains that house our weaving communities.

I’d heard so much about the Valley — about its breathtaking vistas and glaciated peaks — I wondered if it would live up to my expectations. As our van approached the Valley’s edge, I knew this wouldn’t be a problem.

The first views simultaneously reminded me of the Chamonix Valley in France and of California’s Eastern Sierras, but this valley was also unique. It was hemmed in on one side by rolling slopes covered in grain fields and on the other by sharp ascents to pinnacled heights. Settlements lay stretched along the narrow floor following the curve of the Urubamba River (Also know as Wilka Mayu which means "holy river" in Quechua).

On my first day in the Valley clouds hung low and hid the larger glaciers on the highest peaks, like waves crashing in slow-motion over a jetty. When night fell and the full moon illuminated the landscape, the clouds receded to the valley’s rim like an outgoing tide. The stars, so often obscured by the haze and lights of Cusco, broke through their black blanket and hovered above the snowy heights.

The Sacred Valley is no stranger to trains, buses, and cars, but at night the sounds of mechanization fade away. They are replaced by older sounds— sounds of running rivers, rustling leaves, and racing winds.

In the wet season, the Valley is kept green by a steady flood of water from the surrounding mountains. In places like Ollantaytambo, streams are diverted into town and speed through wide gutters on nearly every street. The plunging waters are driven by the irresistible force of gravity deep into the Valley. This force can either bring life or destruction. A naked scar down one hillside marks the place where an alpine lake burst its natural dam and cut a path of destruction to the river below.

Sunrise on the second day was unobstructed by clouds. Clear light poured on Incan ruins and brought warmth to the valley floor. I realized I was closer than I had ever been to our communities, separated only by several miles of dusty road and a few thousand feet of vertical climbing.

Again I thought about the land and the inspiration it must hold for the people who live in it. The Sacred Valley and the mountains that watch over it are so vast, so difficult to grasp with a single glance, it’s amazing how well our weavers can capture it on cloth.

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Down here in the Southern Hemisphere the days are getting shorter and the nights longer. That means, by the time most Peruvians are getting off of work, the sun has already retreated to sunny summer shores in the north. But an early nightfall doesn’t mean Cusco is a sleepy city, as the distant thumping of discothèques and street-food vendors setting up shop will attest.

In the city’s colonial center, floodlights provide a new perspective on the massive churches and Incan walls. As the night goes on, traffic dwindles, leaving room for locals and tourists to stroll the cobbles. Life at night is no less vibrant — just slower paced.

 On pedestrian streets like Calle Mantas, families walk hand-in-hand while businessmen hurry home. Light pours onto the street from small cafes and visitors from around the world lounge on second-story balconies watching the sun disappear.

 In the Plaza de Armas, the sellers of paintings and jewelry pack up their goods. The hustling-bustling square gets quieter, and people take time to sit on the steps of the Cathedral; still warm from the afternoon sun.

 As the last rays of natural light fade, the plaza is illuminated with electric ones. Colored lights trained on the statue of the Incan king Pachacuteq cycle through a rainbow of hues. And, as the sky makes its way from dark-blue to black, the first stars begin to burn low on the horizon

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From the time I arrived in Cusco, I’ve been eager to get out. Not because the city isn’t wonderful but because I know that the land and natural beauty surrounding the city is where our weavers draw inspiration from. Like wine and chocolate, their cloth carries a flavor of these mountains and majesty with it. I wanted to experience that flavor for myself, and set out early one Sunday morning for a place called Chacán Cave.

 The morning was foggy and tamale vendors crouched close to their warm metal pots, waiting for the hungry crowds on their way to Mass. We climbed from Cusco’s main plaza, the Plaza de Armas, up 600 steps through the San Blas neighborhood. This put us high on a hill overlooking the city and the ruins of Sacsayhuamán. These ruins are the site of a battle fought between Incan warriors and conquistadors. In this altitude, walking is hard enough; fighting, I can’t imagine.

Behind Sacsayhuamán, the wildness of the mountains began to creep in. The roads are paved and tour buses lumbered along them but behind the buses alos= ran shaggy ponies. I watched as their hooves clicked sharply on the pavement, fleeing from a horseman and the twirling rag in his hand.

After leaving the asphalt, we hiked a dirt path that rose sharply from the road. As we climbed, I thought about this place, its people, its animals, its vegetation and how they are almost defined by the verticality of life here.

We crested the hill near a crumbling cairn. Rainy season was nearing its end and the path was covered in a heavy blanket of grass. At places the way forward was marked only by a shallow depression in the earth, worn by years of sandaled feet. I took in the colors, vibrant from recent rains. Green and yellow and blue and purple and red, deep earthen red; the colors of grass, flowers, and mud.

 At a place where our path joined a larger track, we met a pair of young boys. They pointed us in the right direction, past a large boulder and up a grassy hill. Soon the trail disappeared, swallowed again by the blanket of grass. I followed a set of horse’s hoof prints until I reached the top of the hill.

At the top, most of the vegetation had turned to tufts of straw. Below I could see a reservoir with an earthen dyke and shepherd boys tending animals at its shore. Beyond the boys a small village lay on the side of a hill, with a few red adobe houses, shelters the color of the earth they were pulled from.

 From my vantage point, it was easy to see that this was a hard land. The thin air, scorching sun, and rough earth make survival in the mountains above Cusco a challenge. But in the rugged ground and in the stubbled grasses I could also see a profound beauty.

On top of that hill, I felt like I could almost touch the clouds, and walking through those mountains had shown me a glimpse of the almost endless trails pushing their way back to staggering peaks. The grazing livestock I had seen, with matted coats on their backs and bunches of grass in their mouths, seemed lost in the impressive scale of this alpine landscape.

 After descending the hill it didn’t take long to reach the natural bridge which forms Chacán Cave. A short but steep trail lead us to the cave’s mouth and to the bank of the rain-swollen river that flows through the Tica Tica valley. As we rested by the river’s edge, details of our surroundings emerged.

On a nearby hillside a boy cut grain, above us a pair of tethered donkeys grazed, and nearby wildflowers shivered in the breeze. The longer I looked, the more I realized how far back the traces of humanity stretched in this valley. It was almost impossible to look in any direction without seeing old brickwork clinging to the valley’s walls.

 We walked home on a different road but the abundant beauty of our surroundings was not lessened. We watched llamas graze and looked at red houses set against the blue-green panorama of earth and sky.

I think it would take a lifetime in the Andes to grasp everything that inspires our weavers; but I feel, if only slightly, that I’m beginning to understand. This place is wild. It is an awesome show of nature’s force; rock carved by ice and water, plants and animals adapted to life in the extreme. But this place is also home to a wealth of human history and tradition, set for ages in brick and stone. Inspiration comes equally from the land and the past. A meeting of forces so great that the existence of a moving artistic tradition was almost inevitable.

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