Peru travel experts share Machu Picchu memories

LSD, weed whackers and symphonies at Machu Picchu. Four experienced Peru travelers wrote to LivinginPeru.com with one of thie most interesting Machu Picchu memories. Contributing are writers and fervent travelers Rafo León, Peter Frost, Marisol Mosquera and Katy Shorthouse.

Machu Picchu with strings - Peter Frost

I choose not to recall the time I passed a kidney stone there, or another occasion when a Japanese woman wearing high-heeled shoes, just ahead of me, fell to her death off Huayna Picchu. Notwithstanding these dramas, Machu Picchu has been very kind to me, and I’ll honor her (she is female, of course) with one of my fondest memories.

Back in the nineteen-eighties I was dragging my hot, sweaty boots down the last leg of the Inca Trail past Intipunku, facing that amazing view, when I noticed that something unusual was afoot down on the esplanade.

A crowd, tiny at this distance, swarmed around the eastern terraces, and as I watched, formed up and seemed to settle into place. Then I heard strange noises, formless and eerie, which resolved themselves into the sound of an orchestra tuning its instruments.

The volume swelled as I neared the Watchman’s Hut and coalesced into the opening bars of a classical piece. After a brief hassle with the authorities — who inevitably thought everyone should pay extra for this unannounced privilege but weren’t sure how much they should charge, or whether they should really charge at all, or whether actually a small tip would do the trick — I found myself seated with a group of my trekking clients and other visitors on the terraces below the Temple of Three Windows.

Gathered across the esplanade from us, solemnly attired in black and white on that warm, sunny day, sat the very same Lima Symphony Orchestra that will be playing there — probably on that very same spot — before the incoming and outgoing politicos and assorted dignitaries this week.

Why that spot? Because orchestras know a thing or two about acoustics, and so, evidently, did the Incas. The orchestra and choir had taken their stand within a large recess at the foot of what Hiram Bingham charmlessly named the Industrial Sector. The sound, often wispy and fugitive in open-air settings, leapt at us off the terraces, full-throated in the mountain air.

Inspired by the Incas’ acoustical magic, the musicians surpassed themselves. They were peforming Mozart’s Requiem, a piece that would wring blood from a stone.

Memory is hazy here, but I seem to remember that the performance was followed by a rapt, lengthy silence. Then the audience recovered its senses and remembered to clap.


Trimming the Inca Citadel — Marisol Mosquera
Of the many times that I have been to Machu Picchu, one memory cannot help but stand out.
Around ten years ago, my group and I eagerly awoke to see Machu Picchu at sunrise, one of the privileges of staying right next to the ruins at the Sanctuary Lodge.

In ardent anticipation of the moment, we trooped excitedly past the gates at 6 am sharp; we clamoured to witness the rising mist reveal the most splendid of Inca sites amidst the stillness and quiet of dawn.

Quite contrary to our best wishes, we were greeted not by the tranquil scene for which we had so fervently sought, but by an employee of the INC armed with a very noisy weed whacker; he was trimming meticulously around the edges of the terracing and curbsides to make sure that no blade of grass had been left longer than official requirements.

The noise of his machine droned into the crisp morning air, ensuring that any attempt to meditate and reflect upon this marvellous site was complemented by the cacophonic melody that denotes somebody cutting grass.

We pleaded with the man: “please can you stop?” He was unfortunately not able to comply as this was a very conscientious and responsible employee who was resolute in completion of his job, maintaining the pride and joy of Peru in a tidy and presentable manner (an indulgence which Hiram Bingham in 1911 could surely never have imagined).

In the end, we could not help but defer that this man’s work was of utmost importance; we glumly resorted to soaking up the majesty of Machu Picchu to the grisly soundtrack of a weed whacker.