Walking the Inca world Machupicchu

By Mark Adams
The New York Times
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Isolated Incan archaeological sites such as Choquequirao and Espiritu Pampa can still be reached only on foot. Most reputable trip outfitters in Cuzco can assemble a made-to-order trip, including the Amazonas Explorer company (www.amazonas-explorer.com).
Lima-based Aracari (www.aracari.com) also offers trips throughout Peru, including to remote sites. Seattle-based Wildland Adventures (www.wildland.com) and REI Adventures (www.reiadventures.com) offer Inca Trail and other treks in Peru.

As we neared the end of a very long climb up a very steep ridge, my guide, John Leivers, shouted at me over his shoulder. "It's said that the Spaniards never found Machu Picchu, but I disagree," he said. I caught up to him — for what seemed like the 20th time that day — and he pointed his bamboo trekking pole at the strangely familiar-looking set of ruins ahead. "It's this place they never found."

He was pointing to Choquequirao, an Incan citadel high in the Peruvian Andes that so closely resembles Machu Picchu that it's often touted as the sister site of South America's most famous ruins. Both are believed to have been built in the 15th century and consist of imposing stone buildings arranged around a central plaza, situated among steep mountain ridges that overlook twisting whitewater rivers, with views of skyscraping peaks.

But there's no question which sibling is more popular.

An estimated 3,000 people make their way through Machu Picchu's corridors on a typical day. Between breakfast and lunch at Choquequirao, I counted 14 people, including myself, Leivers and a few scattered archaeologists.

The first known American to see Choquequirao was the young Yale history lecturer Hiram Bingham III, in 1909. Many believed that the ruins had once been Vilcabamba, the legendary lost city of the Incas. Bingham didn't agree and was mesmerized by the idea of lost cities waiting to be found.

Back again

Two years later, Bingham returned to Peru in search of Vilcabamba. In July 1911, just days into his expedition, Bingham climbed a 2,000-foot-tall slope and encountered an abandoned stone city of which no record existed. It was Machu Picchu.

This year, which marks the 100th anniversary of Bingham's achievement, up to a million visitors are expected at Machu Picchu, a sharp rise from last year's roughly 700,000, one of the highest attendance figures ever.

Most of those pilgrims will hear the tale of Bingham's 1911 trip. But few will know the explorer also located several other major sets of Incan ruins, all of which approach his most famous finds in historic significance.

After Machu Picchu — where he lingered for only a few hours, convinced that more important discoveries lay ahead — Bingham continued his hunt for vanished Incan sites. His 1911 expedition turned out to be one of the most successful in history.

Within a few hundred square miles, he found Vitcos, once an Incan capital, and Espiritu Pampa, a jungle city where the last Incan king is thought to have made a final stand against Spanish invaders. A year later he returned, and came upon Llactapata, a mysterious satellite town two miles west of Machu Picchu whose importance is still being decoded.

I wondered if it was still possible to detour from the modern, tourist path and arrive in the same way Bingham had — by taking the scenic route into Inca history. Aided by Leivers, a 58-year-old Australian expatriate who works with the Cuzco-based adventure outfitter Amazonas Explorer, I assembled a trip to do just that.

Rather than start with the most famous ruins, our route began in Cuzco and looped counterclockwise around them, stopping first at the other extraordinary sites. You might call it a backdoor to Machu Picchu.

A typical Machu Picchu package tour lasts a week. But anyone able to stretch that to 2 ½ weeks — and who has sturdy legs — can hike in blissful solitude through roughly 100 miles of some of the world's most varied and beautiful terrain while pausing to gawk at Bingham's greatest hits. (April through October are the driest months to undertake such a trip.)

Best of all, by circumventing the most common approaches to Machu Picchu — the train from Cuzco and the Inca Trail — the backdoor route avoids the Machu Picchu crowds almost entirely.

Wild lands

Though the little-seen wonders surrounding Machu Picchu exist in an area not much bigger than Los Angeles, Peru's crazy-quilt topography and weather patterns have provided them with a grand and amazingly varied setting. My packing list included long underwear and malaria medicine.

Since there were no proper roads to most of our destinations, Leivers had a team of six mules to carry gear and three men to wrangle them, plus a cook. The four men spoke Quechua, the language of the Andes (and Incas), among themselves, and Spanish to Leivers and me.

The zigzagging trail to Choquequirao, our first stop, was only 20 miles long but required crossing a canyon nearly a mile deep. Leivers, who, when he's not giving tours, spends his time hiking alone through the Andes searching for pre-Columbian ruins, described the journey as "a nice walk."

And it was, for the first hour or so, as we hiked a gentle rise toward the 19,000-foot-high snow-capped Mount Padreyoc. After that, the trail plummeted, crossed the Apurimac River, then rose almost vertically for 5,000 switchbacking feet.

For two days I was so focused on keeping up with Leivers' unwavering pace that I hardly noticed the scenery.

And yet, when we finally entered the Choquequirao ruins on the third morning, I knew the effort was been well spent. As at Machu Picchu, beautiful stone terraces led up to a grassy main plaza. The most important structures had been thoughtfully arranged around this green space. We strolled peacefully through gabled buildings, lined with niches designed to hold mummies and sacred idols.

Though Choquequirao was already well-known locally when Bingham arrived, its hard-to-reach location and scale — the main ruins of Machu Picchu are contained in a compact space of perhaps 20 acres, while the structures of Choquequirao sprawl over hundreds of acres — have slowed efforts to reclaim it from the surrounding cloud forest and restore its buildings to something like their original glory.

"Once this is all cleared, Choquequirao will be one of the most spectacular archaeological sites in the world," Leivers said.

As we departed Choquequirao heading north, Leivers calculated that by the time we reached Machu Picchu, we would have climbed and descended elevations almost equal to walking up Mount Everest from sea level and back down again.

"Trust me, your legs will adapt after a few days," he assured me. And they did, during the roller-coaster four-day walk to Vitcos, about 40 miles on foot.

Incan architects specialized in spectacular entrances, and the path leading into Vitcos was one of their masterpieces: a long, narrow walkway that leads to a majestic stone building, once probably a palace. From that approach, rows of mountains unfold in all directions, giving the visitor the sense of stepping onstage in the world's biggest amphitheater.

But while the stonework of the palace doorways, the site's finest examples of imperial Incan masonry, rivals anything in Peru, what drew Bingham — and me — to Vitcos was the White Rock, an extraordinary carved granite boulder the size of a Winnebago. Abstract geometric shapes were engraved into its eastern face. Its backside was cut into smooth tiers, possibly altars.

Into the jungle

From Vitcos, we started the rough, 30-mile-long trek down — way down — to Espiritu Pampa, once an ancient city in the jungle.

"Up there are the Andes," Leivers said, gesturing backward as we crossed a wobbly suspension bridge. "Down there is the Amazon."

Over the course of three sweaty days, we traversed a marshy basin, climbed to a gap where gale-force winds nearly knocked us over, and passed through a misty, desolate zone dotted with green salt pools and into jungle.

Espiritu Pampa, which the Incas hastily abandoned when attacked by Spanish conquistadors in 1572, has a spooky, frozen-in-time feeling (and it is believed to be the lost city of Vilcabamba that Bingham sought).

Enormous matapalo strangler fig trees loomed over its central plaza, their leaves diffusing the sunlight as it fell on dozens of stone buildings, many of which had toppled into heaps.

Toward Machu Picchu

Leivers promised that Llactapata, one of our last stops before Machu Picchu, would provide an excellent illustration of a theory on Inca life and design.

Over the last 20 years, Johan Reinhard, an anthropologist and National Geographic explorer-in-residence, has developed a theory the Incas laid out their buildings in relation to the paths of the sun and stars, especially those at Machu Picchu that are believed to have been built in the mid-1400s as an estate for an Incan emperor.

Llactapata has been called the "Lost Suburb of the Incas," because it sits directly across the valley from Machu Picchu and, with a decent pair of binoculars, is visible from it.

Leivers showed me how on the morning of the June solstice — the shortest day of the year in the Southern Hemisphere and one of the holiest dates on the Incan calendar — one corridor at Llactapata aligns perfectly with the Sun Temple at Machu Picchu and the exact spot on the horizon where the sun rises. The Incas were superb engineers; such an invisible axis couldn't have been a coincidence.

After descending on foot into the canyon that sits between Llactapata and the Historical Sanctuary of Machu Picchu, an 80,000-acre preserve that contains the main site and the Inca Trail, travelers can catch a train to Machu Picchu. Or, as Leivers and I did, they can slip in the rear entrance by walking the last six miles.

One's first view of Machu Picchu is a bit like seeing the "Mona Lisa" after staring for years at a da Vinci refrigerator magnet. You know exactly what to expect, and at the same time, can't quite believe that the real thing exceeds the hype. Also like the "Mona Lisa," Machu Picchu is more compact than it appears in photos.

In less than an hour Leivers and I were able to visit most of the ruins that Bingham saw 100 years ago, in the same order he had encountered them: the cave of the Royal Mausoleum, with its interior walls that seemed to have melted; the perfect curve of the Sun Temple; the titanic structures of the Sacred Plaza; and, at the very top of the main ruins, the enigmatic Intihuatana stone, around which a throng of mystically inclined visitors stood with their hands extended, hoping to absorb good vibrations.

On the last morning of our trip, feeling crowd-shy, I asked Leivers if he knew of any place at Machu Picchu that Bingham had seen but that most people never bothered to visit. "I know just the spot," he said without hesitating. "Mount Machu Picchu."

Climbing the 1,640-foot-tall staircase to the top of verdant Mount Machu Picchu gave us a condor's-eye view of the ruins. It let us, like Bingham a hundred years before, savor Machu Picchu.

Machu Picchu 100 Years After Hiram Bingham

www.machupicchumagico.com

Travel writers who made the trek to Peru for the 100th anniversary celebration of Hiram Bingham's arrival at Machu Picchu are facing a dilemma, whether or not to put the word discovery in quotes. As more than a few scribblers have rightly observed, the American merely followed native guides to the abandoned city: His revelation was their constitutional.

Writers are hedging their bets so far. The Los Angeles Times is simply running 100 facts about the site while The New York Times and The Wall Street Journal broached the topic through Mark Adams, whose new book Turn Right at Machu Picchu retraces Bingham's steps.

The one voice that has never leaned towards ambivalence in discussing Bingham's achievement is that of the Peruvian government, which has skipped the hand-wringing and headed straight for the party. The light show begins Thursday night.

In bypassing the symposium on the morals of archeology, government officials sent the clear message that it is more pleased that Machu Picchu falls within its border than it is concerned about the Incan legacy. They can join the club.

Of the 657,000 visitors that make their way to Machu Picchu annually, only a handful are, as Bingham was, expert in South American history. Fewer still are archeologists or researchers. Visitors to Machu Picchu are normal people who wish to spend a day or two in the thrall of an amazing place.

In 1922 Bingham, peering around his Harvard PhD, presaged the mountain city's inevitable future, writing: "Whoever they were, whatever name be finally assigned to this site by future historians, of this I feel sure that few romances can ever surpass that of the granite citadel on top of the beetling precipices of Machu Picchu, the crown of Inca Land."

Bingham understood that details would only obscure the view. Discovered, "discovered," or re-discovered, the crucial thing to know about Machu Picchu is that its beautiful.

The Peruvian government is still hosting journalists from around the world, so there will be a few more Machu Picchu stories popping up in your news source of choice. If these stories don't compel you to go, the romantic vistas pictured below should do the trick.

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.

100 facts for 100 years of Machu Picchu

In July, Machu Picchu, Peru's biggest tourist attraction, will mark its 100th anniversary of rediscovery. Hiram Bingham III, a Yale professor, came upon the vine-covered ruins on July 24, 1911. Here, then, as we lead up to the century mark, are 100-plus facts about Machu Picchu, its country, its history and its players. We will post one each day for the next 100 days.

Feature: Top archaeological digs

You might not have thought about archaeological holidays as the perfect combination of sun and history. Well, you’re not alone. We were rather surprised by the vast selection of archaeology holidays that offer perfect sunshine as well as thought-provoking historical insights. Admittedly, many of us are now looking beyond the traditional beach holiday, instead we look for alternatives that offer adventure and inspiration.

Archaeological tours can range from bargain basement coach trips around the ruins of Greece to exotic adventures around the Mayan sites of Guatemala. As these trips are growing ever more popular with a large group of holidaymakers we thought that it was about time to look more closely at these tours. Who knows, we might actually learn something!

Human history has laid its mark on every region of the world and now we’re finding out how you can explore such marks. There have been colossal wars that have threatened the very ground we walk on. The vast achievements of civilisation from the great Pyramids of Egypt to the classical architecture and culture of the Renaissance have been an inspiration to the future countless times. World tourism now thrives on these sites.

Are these archaeological sites sunny you ask? But yes of course! It’s no coincidence that we call ourselves iWantSun.co.uk!

The ancient world revisited
Surprise, surprise…our dig into (no pun intended) archaeology holidays kicks off with the Pyramids of Egypt. The largest-made structures in the world and one of the most poignant and fascinating symbols of ancient civilization. Numbering around one hundred, the stone monuments located across the Nile valley date back as many as 5,000 years. A visit to the Pyramids is a must for everyone who has ever marvelled at the long history of this unique site.

After the recent unrest in the country, tour operators are slowly returning to the destination and Responsible Travel is offering a holiday that promises an insight into this fascinating ancient civilisation by taking travellers beyond the classic archaeological sites. Places such as Al Fayoum, the impressive workmen’s village on Luxor’s West Bank and the funerary temple of Ramses III are all included in the itinerary.

Work in progress
The north of Peru is only slowly opening up to tourism and doesn’t figure in most people’s idea of a Peruvian holiday. But that is all going to change if the number of sightseeing opportunities is anything to go by – and if we have a say in it! We can assure you that the reason for the lack of tourism in this part of the country is not for lack of things to see and do but more because when you’re up the road, so to speak, from Machu Picchu and Cusco it can easily be ignored.

But as people start to realise some of the unexplored gems there are to visit when you travel the ‘wrong way’ up the Pan-American highway. The north is definitely the place to be for history buffs as the whole sweep of Peruvian history is easily visible here, from pre-Inca Chan-Chan through to colonial Trujillo. While excavations at Huaca de la Luna and Chan-Chan are well underway, in places like Huaca del Sol they haven’t even started. So, here you can be part of a work in progress! The Real Peru is one of the few tour organisers travelling to this northern part of the country.

Once upon a time in Mexico
Although not the largest Mayan site in the region, some of the finest sculptures, architecture and bas-reliefs of the civilisation can be found at Palenque in Mexico. The vast complex in the state of Chiapas is filled with many large palaces and temples that are bound to transport you right back to the Mayan era. Surrounded by dense jungle, a trip to the spectacular temple ruins will also give you a chance to take in the mountainous valleys and visit the waterfalls at Agua Azul.

Last Frontiers is offering adventurous travellers the chance to explore many different aspects of Mexican culture by taking them beyond Mexico City and the excavations at Palenque. The two-week itinerary includes visits to a number of Indian villages, Maya ruins as well as the Caribbean coast.

And since you’re in Mexico why not head off to Cancun for some well-deserved relaxation-time on a sun lounger by the beautiful sea?

Angkor what? Oh, Angkor Wat…
The astounding temples of Angkor in Cambodia have marvelled visitors for several hundred years. A monumental experience and according to the experts, the Angkor Wat is a sight you must witness at least once in your lifetime. And you can do exactly this with Travel Indochina’s five-day tour of Angkor. Yes, five days – gives you plenty of time to explore some of the wonderfully pristine beaches of Cambodia! On this short journey you can watch the sun coming up over the majestic temples, near the lesser used eastern gate, to avoid the crowds of tourists. Also, off the beaten trail you will uncover the ruins of tree-covered Ta Prohm and imposing Bayon, as well as the highlights of Phnom Penh, the capital of Cambodia.

This ancient Khmer civilisation dominated Southeast Asia in the ninth to 15th centuries. And this vast complex of ruins reveals just how sophisticated the culture actually was. Prepare to be both astonished and inspired!

It’s all Greek to me…
Greece has been home to one of the oldest civilisations in history and has been inhabited for thousands of years. Every civilisation has left a mark on this land, whether visible to the eye today or not, archaeologists have a very special interest in Greece and all the treasures it holds within – that’s why an archaeological holiday to Greece is the ideal way to discover the world that has been and learn a bit of ancient history! As an increasing number of people are interested in Greece’s rich culture and history, there are even more travel operators helping people to explore the secrets within this country. And Greeka.com is one of those operators!

From the ancient city of Athens, which hosts a large part of the archaeological sites you can visit in Greece, to the famous site of Delphi with the renowned oracle ‘the navel of Earth’, Greece is home to more archaeological sites that you will ever be able to pack into one holiday. So, why not take two Greek archaeological tours?! We haven’t even mentioned the Greek islands which also host many archaeological places, with the most famous being Delos, located opposite to Mykonos Island.

Exceptional new tours of South and Central America

Scenic Tours have just released their new 2012 South America brochure showcasing exceptional journeys which combine luxury land touring with unique cruising experiences.
As many places in South America are only accessible by ship, Scenic Tours have created a range of unique itineraries, taking guests to some of the most incredible places on earth. All ships are like luxury floating hotels featuring fine dining, elegant décor, impeccable hospitality and exclusive private balconies suites. Choose from a luxury wilderness expedition to the far reaches of the Amazon jungle, cruise to the Galapagos Islands - the greatest wildlife sanctuary on earth, explore the majestic beauty of dramatic Antarctica, discover the spectacular Chilean Fjords and Cape Horn, or journey through the famous Panama Canal.
By land, Scenic Tours itineraries offer a unique insight into South America first hand. Guests can choose from a fantastic range of activities, such as an inspiring Peruvian cooking class, a visit to a local Andean village school and exploring the Brazilian Tijuca Forest by jeep. An array of magnificent scenery will also delight the senses and the famous icons of Iguazu Falls, the lost Inca citadel of Machu Picchu and the vibrant cities of Rio and Buenos Aires won’t disappoint.
Each Scenic Tours hotel is selected to enhance the holiday experience, with properties chosen for their luxurious accommodation and amazing location. One such special stay is the Hotel das Cataras by Orient Express. This remarkable hotel is perfectly situated at Iguazu Falls and is the only hotel located within the National Park and offers spectacular views.
Scenic Tours portfolio of luxury journeys range from 20 to 35 days duration and deliver the ultimate touring experience of South America. To celebrate the release of their new 2012 South America brochure, Scenic Tours are offering Partner Fly Free Return including taxes deals to South America on selected tours, hurry offers ends 31 October 2011.

Machu Picchu tests the body and mind

We rode our horses up the adjacent cliffs along grassy hillsides and fields of maize until we arrived at Moray. Moray is a deep, amphitheaterlike structure carved out of the earth. Many researchers believe it to be some form of an Inca crop laboratory. Each leveled terrace is a microclimate all determined by the elevation and angle of the sun. Visitors are allowed to climb down each terrace at leisure and venture all the way to the bottom.

The end of our ride led us to the village of Maras and a personal walking tour by our guide. We were introduced to two researchers who were finding ways to improve irrigation techniques and help farmers in the area be self-sufficient and profitable. Throughout the village we were greeted by friendly Peruvians, including Albizu's father, who were very hospitable and honored we had spent time learning about their culture.

Machu Picchu

The excursion to Machu Picchu begins in the small village of Aguas Calientes. A three-hour train ride from the outskirts of Cuzco takes you to this tiny town nestled between the Andes along a winding river gorge. The only point of entry to Machu Picchu caters to tourists. Colorful restaurants and souvenir shops are stacked on top of each other to create a maze of entertainment along the banks of the river. Backpackers stroll leisurely through steep cobblestone walkways. Michael and I immediately bought two days' worth of tickets to Machu Picchu - one for the afternoon and another to watch the sunrise and see the fog lift the next day.

The bus trip up the mountain to get to the ruins is not for the faint of heart. The unpaved switchbacks are often muddy and have no guardrails to offer protection along steep cliffs. Once you "survive" the bus ride and wait in the entrance line, the ruins are all yours to explore.

Machu Picchu is surrounded by mountains of lush vegetation and is nestled at an elevation of 7,900 feet between steep peaks. The site was abandoned and forgotten, but never discovered by the Spanish. It was rediscovered by American archeologist Hiram Bingham, who was guided to it by local residents in 1911. Researchers believe the area must have been of high importance due to the intricate architecture and massive size of the city. The Temple of the Sun, the only round building in the ruins, was built for astrological purposes. The Intihuatana stone determined precise dates of the solstices and equinoxes. Structures such as the Temple of the Condor, House of the High Priest and Sacristy were used for ceremonial rituals. One must reserve an entire day to truly appreciate each section of the ruins.

Wayna Picchu

On day two of our Machu Picchu exploration, Michael was determined to get me to hike up Wayna Picchu, the famously steep mountain that serves as the beautiful backdrop to Machu Picchu. We heard the climb was difficult and only for the physically fit. After meandering through the ruins in the morning fog and drizzle, I did not want to chance the nearly 1,200-foot climb up to Wayna Picchu. The trail is slippery, muddy and on that morning, cloaked in fog. The trail isn't supported with rails; a few cables are attached to the side of the mountain and are used for support in the steepest areas of the climb.

To add to the scariness of the climb, only 400 visitors are allowed during the day - 200 in the morning and 200 in the afternoon.

No matter how frightened I was, something inside me told me I needed to take this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Michael was thrilled. He gave me a reassuring hug and we walked up to the entrance. The little confidence I had built up quickly vanished after I was required to sign my name in the thick roster at the gate.

I started to shake. It was our turn to hit the trail after numbers 90 and 91 took the first steps. The hike started out easy enough. A simple walk across connecting trails to Wayna Picchu gave a beautiful view of the path ahead. Then we approached steep, slippery steps, followed by shear drop-offs. I concentrated on each step, dodging hikers coming back down the mountain. I often used my hands and knees to climb, grabbing the cables during difficult turns. I stopped once to sob and once to breathe. After an hour, we were finally to the top. The fog hadn't yet lifted, so we waited for the clouds to move, and for a few short seconds had an amazing view of the ruins.

As I climbed down the mountain with my legs shaking, a feeling of serenity came over me. Perhaps I became one with the spiritual world on that mountain top. I pushed the strength of my mind and body to the limit. My thoughts turned to the amazing Peruvian adventure we had experienced thus far. The friendly and proud Peruvian people drew us into their culture and in turn, changed my life for the better.

Canatur announces the 28th edition of Peru Travel Mart

Peru´s Tourism Chamber (CANATUR) has just released the details of the 2011 Peru Travel Mart (PTM), to be held in Lima between 15-18 May. The event will highlight the relevance of the Centenary of Machu Picchu on July 7th, in terms of expected number of visitors, hotel openings, and general industry developments. According to Peru’s Hotel Society (SHP), hotel investments will reach a historic record in 2011 totalling $482.5 million, a 324.5% rise compared to 2010.

Peru’s Tourism Board coordinator for Asia Pacific, Rosana Guinea says that Peru is undertaking a process of change, and becoming South America´s leading destination in new markets within the Asia Pacific. The country has just released a new global branding image, which aims to establish a brand for Peru internationally, promoting not only tourism, but also commerce and foreign investment.

“The investments and consequent developments undertaken by Peru in the last three years have opened doors for new markets focused on luxury travel or upmarket adventure with a cultural touch. These are exciting times for Peru, and the 2011 Travel Mart will be a good opportunity to showcase what our country has to offer internationally”, said Rosana.

Peru Travel Mart is the country´s most important promotional event, and a key meeting point for the Peruvian tour operators and representatives from all over the world.

“Peru Travel Mart 2011 will showcase new tourism products, and we invite Australian tour operators to join us and learn about new destinations within Peru, which will provide exciting alternatives to their product range”, added Rosana.

Lima, Peru: The 'City of Kings' reigns again

Once a place to leave as quickly as possible, Lima, the capital of Peru, is now showing off its many colonial and pre-conquistador glories, says Hugh Thomson.

Lima must have one of the most fabulous sunsets in the world. It helps, of course, that the city faces due west across the Pacific, so the setting sun can flood into the beaches and pick out the last surfers elegantly essaying a few lines.
Up above on the cliffs, paragliders spiral past the smoked-black windows of the nearby hotels, many of which have infinity pools on their rooftops.
It all seems very Californian. The crowds promenading along the seafront eating ice cream and taking in the spectacle have a prosperous feel. And Lima has been booming in recent years. Even the taxi drivers no longer have anything to complain about.
Peru, like neighbouring Chile and Brazil, has largely missed out on the worldwide recession, helped by strong mineral exports and a surprisingly conservative banking system. The Shining Path years – when the country was terrorised by Maoist revolutionaries – seem a distant memory.

Package touts 100 years since Machu Picchu’s unveiling

This summer marks 100 years since U.S. academic Hiram Bingham brought international attention to the Inca city of Machu Picchu in Peru’s Andes mountains, and to celebrate the anniversary, Peru’s Libertador Hotels, Resorts & Spas chain is offering a special package.

Book one night at Libertador’s Palacio del Inka resort in the historic city of Cusco and two nights at Tambo del Inka, a new resort and spa in the Sacred Valley of Urubamba, and you get an extra night free at Palacio del Inka.

The “100 Days” package offer also includes a full day tour of Machu Picchu, departing from Tambo del Inka’s onsite train station, as well as a spa treatment at Tambo del Inka in the valley and dinner for two at Palacio del Inka’s restaurant in Cusco.

The offer is valid for travel from June 1 to Sept. 9, for bookings made by July 30.

Rates for the package – including four-nights stay, tour and other amenities — start at $1,034 per person.

Tambo del Inka opened April 2010 as part of Starwood resort chain’s luxury collection, offering 128 rooms and suites, a full-service spa, two heated pools, its own train station to facilitate trips to Machu Picchu and views of the Andes and the Vilcanota River. The designer was Miami-based Arquitectonica.

Palacio del Inka is located in the heart of Cusco in front of the Koricancha or Sun Temple. It offers 254 rooms and suites, the Inti Raymi restaurant, a business center, shops, cafe, gym and other amenities.

To book the anniversary package, use code 100DAYS.

Candelaria Festival, Peru's biggest festival

Candelaria Festival: Dressing up on an epic scale
Candelaria Festival, Peru's biggest festival, is a chaotic medley of costumes, spray foam, hosepipes and egg-white cocktails.


Foosh! Right in the face. The shock sends my corn on the cob flying out of my hand but it’s certainly cooled me down. I’m at Enrique Torres Beló Stadium in Puno, a crumbly, colourful town that sits high on the banks of Lake Titicaca in Peru, and a group of men are hosing down the crowds with water meant to cool the plastic floor. I suffered a direct hit.

We are in the middle of le Fiesta de la Virgen de la Candelaria, a two-week religious celebration in honour of the Virgin Maria of the Candelaria. The festival takes place approximately 40 days after Christmas and celebrates how a vision of the Virgin Maria warned Peruvian miners that an enemy army was approaching.

The Catholic festival began back in the 19th century and today’s 20,000-strong crowd are entertained by thousands of dancers and musicians who are normally as drunk as their audience. In fact, it is now cited as the second biggest party in South America after Rio Carnival. I see few tourists (because of the floods that closed Macchu Picchu earlier this year) so my glimpse into this traditional South American world feels extra-special.

Today there are around 70 groups performing from different neighbourhoods. Each group has at least 100 performers – some a whopping 600 – and they travel from as far afield as Arequipa, Cusco and the capital city, Lima. Teenagers dance the diablada, a traditional South American dance, next to 60- year-old grandmothers while, on the sideline, mothers fuss over little girls covered in sequins. I’m told that some spend a whole year in rehearsals and an entire month’s wages on their extravagant costumes. As I kneel on a tiny patch of grass next to the plastic floor, I get squashed by a huge monkey, a child dressed as a scorpion and a pack of sweaty, adrenalin-fuelled men wearing grotesque masks to represent Africans who were enslaved in Peru in the 16th century.

Many of these groups represent various parts of Peruvian history: those in gorilla outfits, for example, are saying thanks for the bounty of the jungle. Others I can make no sense of. They are so colourful and spangly they look like dancing Christmas trees.

I head to the concrete stands to seek refuge from the harsh sun and just as I buy a slice of cake from a vendor who is wandering around with a whopping great carving knife, Miss Peru arrives high behind me, leaving the poor group who are performing suddenly faced with a sea of backs. The crowds whoop and wolf whistle as her slender form cuts through the crowds and out of sight.

The chaos of today, however, has nothing on the street parade. After a refreshing sleep, aided by many pisco sours (made with Peruvian brandy and egg whites – sounds gross, tastes amazing), I wake to find some of the performers have not been to bed. While some stumble down La Torre Avenue, the main street, still clasping a flat Cusqueña beer, those without a refreshment don’t wait long for a top up – bystanders run into the middle of the parade to offer their drinks, causing all sorts of destruction to the routines.

The music sounds the same to my Western ears but I am told by 24-year-old performer Luisa Arenas there are 200 different kinds of folk music played today. ‘As the parade goes through the street, we dance for four hours, covering 4km,’ she tells me. ‘I live in Lima and started practising in June last year so I could get myself used to altitude. It’s very difficult otherwise’. Next year will be Arenas’s third year dancing in the parade. ‘It’s a very special year because tradition says that when you dance three consecutive years, the virgin will grant the wish you made in your first year.’ Arenas’s favourite dance is the caporales, which is generally danced by younger performers in very short skirts and the wakawaka which, in contrast, requires women to wear 12 huge skirts.

My favourite dancers, however, are the young men; their excitement is infectious. As they leap, twirl and skip, they furrow their brows and shout angrily. The crowd goes wild and beer hits my right eye. Just as I wonder if I can take any more, all hell breaks loose: the children are given foam in a can. Soon, leaving our seats for a toilet break requires SAS-like planning and before long, I’m rubbing foam out of my other eye. But, regardless of the battering my face has taken, there is something very charming about Peru’s two-week marathon of pandemonium, which takes place in different forms all over the country. ‘People prepare all year and can spend all their savings in just a few days,’ says Arenas. ‘But it’s really about faith and devotion.’ And lots and lots of drinking and dancing.

Lonely Planet predicts 2011 travel trends

Tallinn is among the destinations that will attract the interest of travellers in 2011, according to Lonely Planet.

Looking forward to some of the destinations and experiences it expects to be popular next year, the travel information provider pointed out that the Estonian city has been 'rightfully' awarded the title of European Capital of Culture 2011.

The company predicted that visitors will be drawn to landmarks such as the Alexander Nevsky cathedral and the cobbled streets of Tallinn's World Heritage-listed old town.

Another forecast from Lonely Planet is that London will become 'the place to be in 2011'.

Several events and developments will put the English capital in the spotlight, including the wedding of Prince William and Kate Middleton, the build-up to the Olympics and the opening of the Shard, Europe's tallest building.

The historic site of Machu Picchu is traditionally popular among travellers and will become even more appealing in 2011 when it marks the anniversary of its rediscovery in the 15th century, according to Lonely Planet.

Opodo cheap flights, hotels and car hire - let the journey begin!

Mario Vargas Llosa's Nobel Lecture

Reading changed dreams into life and life into dreams and placed the universe of literature within reach of the boy I once was. My mother told me the first things I wrote were continuations of the stories I read because it made me sad when they concluded or because I wanted to change their endings. And perhaps this is what I have spent my life doing without realizing it: prolonging in time, as I grew, matured, and aged, the stories that filled my childhood with exaltation and adventures.


I wish my mother were here, a woman who was moved to tears reading the poems of Amado Nervo and Pablo Neruda, and Grandfather Pedro too, with his large nose and gleaming bald head, who celebrated my verses, and Uncle Lucho, who urged me so energetically to throw myself body and soul into writing even though literature, in that time and place, compensated its devotees so badly. Throughout my life I have had people like that at my side, people who loved and encouraged me and infected me with their faith when I had doubts. Thanks to them, and certainly to my obstinacy and some luck, I have been able to devote most of my time to the passion, the vice, the marvel of writing, creating a parallel life where we can take refuge against adversity, one that makes the extraordinary natural and the natural extraordinary, that dissipates chaos, beautifies ugliness, eternalizes the moment, and turns death into a passing spectacle.


Writing stories was not easy. When they were turned into words, projects withered on the paper and ideas and images failed. How to reanimate them? Fortunately, the masters were there, teachers to learn from and examples to follow. Flaubert taught me that talent is unyielding discipline and long patience. Faulkner, that form – writing and structure – elevates or impoverishes subjects. Martorell, Cervantes, Dickens, Balzac, Tolstoy, Conrad, Thomas Mann, that scope and ambition are as important in a novel as stylistic dexterity and narrative strategy. Sartre, that words are acts, that a novel, a play, or an essay, engaged with the present moment and better options, can change the course of history. Camus and Orwell, that a literature stripped of morality is inhuman, and Malraux that heroism and the epic are as possible in the present as is the time of the Argonauts, the Odyssey, and the Iliad.


If in this address I were to summon all the writers to whom I owe a few things or a great deal, their shadows would plunge us into darkness. They are innumerable. In addition to revealing the secrets of the storytelling craft, they obliged me to explore the bottomless depths of humanity, admire its heroic deeds, and feel horror at its savagery. They were my most obliging friends, the ones who vitalized my calling and in whose books I discovered that there is hope even in the worst of circumstances, that living is worth the effort if only because without life we could not read or imagine stories.


At times I wondered whether writing was not a solipsistic luxury in countries like mine, where there were scant readers, so many people who were poor and illiterate, so much injustice, and where culture was a privilege of the few. These doubts, however, never stifled my calling, and I always kept writing even during those periods when earning a living absorbed most of my time. I believe I did the right thing, since if, for literature to flourish, it was first necessary for a society to achieve high culture, freedom, prosperity, and justice, it never would have existed. But thanks to literature, to the consciousness it shapes, the desires and longings it inspires, and our disenchantment with reality when we return from the journey to a beautiful fantasy, civilization is now less cruel than when storytellers began to humanize life with their fables. We would be worse than we are without the good books we have read, more conformist, not as restless, more submissive, and the critical spirit, the engine of progress, would not even exist. Like writing, reading is a protest against the insufficiencies of life. When we look in fiction for what is missing in life, we are saying, with no need to say it or even to know it, that life as it is does not satisfy our thirst for the absolute – the foundation of the human condition – and should be better. We invent fictions in order to live somehow the many lives we would like to lead when we barely have one at our disposal.


Without fictions we would be less aware of the importance of freedom for life to be livable, the hell it turns into when it is trampled underfoot by a tyrant, an ideology, or a religion. Let those who doubt that literature not only submerges us in the dream of beauty and happiness but alerts us to every kind of oppression, ask themselves why all regimes determined to control the behavior of citizens from cradle to grave fear it so much they establish systems of censorship to repress it and keep so wary an eye on independent writers. They do this because they know the risk of allowing the imagination to wander free in books, know how seditious fictions become when the reader compares the freedom that makes them possible and is exercised in them with the obscurantism and fear lying in wait in the real world. Whether they want it or not, know it or not, when they invent stories the writers of tales propagate dissatisfaction, demonstrating that the world is badly made and the life of fantasy richer than the life of our daily routine. This fact, if it takes root in their sensibility and consciousness, makes citizens more difficult to manipulate, less willing to accept the lies of the interrogators and jailers who would like to make them believe that behind bars they lead more secure and better lives.


Good literature erects bridges between different peoples, and by having us enjoy, suffer, or feel surprise, unites us beneath the languages, beliefs, habits, customs, and prejudices that separate us. When the great white whale buries Captain Ahab in the sea, the hearts of readers take fright in exactly the same way in Tokyo, Lima, or Timbuctu. When Emma Bovary swallows arsenic, Anna Karenina throws herself in front of the train, and Julien Sorel climbs to the scaffold, and when, in "El sur," the urban doctor Juan Dahlmann walks out of that tavern on the pampa to face a thug"s knife, or we realize that all the residents of Comala, Pedro Páramo"s village, are dead, the shudder is the same in the reader who worships Buddha, Confucius, Christ, Allah, or is an agnostic, wears a jacket and tie, a jalaba, a kimono, or bombachas. Literature creates a fraternity within human diversity and eclipses the frontiers erected among men and women by ignorance, ideologies, religions, languages, and stupidity.


Since every period has its horrors, ours is the age of fanatics, of suicide terrorists, an ancient species convinced that by killing they earn heaven, that the blood of innocents washes away collective affronts, corrects injustices, and imposes truth on false beliefs. Every day, all over the world, countless victims are sacrificed by those who feel they possess absolute truths. With the collapse of totalitarian empires, we believed that living together, peace, pluralism, and human rights would gain the ascendancy and the world would leave behind holocausts, genocides, invasions, and wars of extermination. None of that has occurred. New forms of barbarism flourish, incited by fanaticism, and with the proliferation of weapons of mass destruction, we cannot overlook the fact that any small faction of crazed redeemers may one day provoke a nuclear cataclysm. We have to thwart them, confront them, and defeat them. There aren"t many, although the tumult of their crimes resounds all over the planet and the nightmares they provoke overwhelm us with dread. We should not allow ourselves to be intimidated by those who want to snatch away the freedom we have been acquiring over the long course of civilization. Let us defend the liberal democracy that, with all its limitations, continues to signify political pluralism, coexistence, tolerance, human rights, respect for criticism, legality, free elections, alternation in power, everything that has been taking us out of a savage life and bringing us closer – though we will never attain it – to the beautiful, perfect life literature devises, the one we can deserve only by inventing, writing, and reading it. By confronting homicidal fanatics we defend our right to dream and to make our dreams reality.


In my youth, like many writers of my generation, I was a Marxist and believed socialism would be the remedy for the exploitation and social injustices that were becoming more severe in my country, in Latin America, and in the rest of the Third World. My disillusion with statism and collectivism and my transition to the democrat and liberal that I am – that I try to be – was long and difficult and carried out slowly as a consequence of episodes like the conversion of the Cuban Revolution, about which I initially had been enthusiastic, to the authoritarian, vertical model of the Soviet Union; the testimony of dissidents who managed to slip past the barbed wire fences of the Gulag; the invasion of Czechoslovakia by the nations of the Warsaw Pact; and because of thinkers like Raymond Aron, Jean Francois Rével, Isaiah Berlin, and Karl Popper, to whom I owe my reevaluation of democratic culture and open societies. Those masters were an example of lucidity and gallant courage when the intelligentsia of the West, as a result of frivolity or opportunism, appeared to have succumbed to the spell of Soviet socialism or, even worse, to the bloody witches" Sabbath of the Chinese Cultural Revolution.


As a boy I dreamed of coming some day to Paris because, dazzled by French literature, I believed that living there and breathing the air breathed by Balzac, Stendhal, Baudelaire, and Proust would help transform me into a real writer, and if I did not leave Peru I would be only a pseudo Sundays-and-holidays writer. And the truth is I owe to France and French culture unforgettable lessons, for example that literature is as much a calling as it is a discipline, a job, an obstinacy. I lived there when Sartre and Camus were alive and writing, in the years of Ionesco, Beckett, Bataille, and Cioran, the discovery of the theater of Brecht and the films of Ingmar Bergman, the Theatre National Populaire of Jean Vilar and the Odéon of Jean-Louis Barrault, of the Nouvelle Vague and the Nouveau Roman and the speeches, beautiful literary pieces, of André Malraux, and what may have been the most theatrical spectacle in Europe during that time, the press conferences and Olympic thunderings of General de Gaulle. But perhaps I am most grateful to France for the discovery of Latin America. There I learned that Peru was part of a vast community united by history, geography, social and political problems, a certain mode of being, and the delicious language it spoke and wrote. And in those same years, it was producing a new, forceful literature. There I read Borges, Octavio Paz, Cortázar, García Márquez, Fuentes, Cabrera Infante, Rulfo, Onetti, Carpentier, Edwards, Donoso, and many others whose writings were revolutionizing narrative in the Spanish language, and thanks to whom Europe and a good part of the world discovered that Latin America was not the continent only of coups, operetta despots, bearded guerrillas, and the maracas of the mambo and the cha-cha-cha but of ideas, artistic forms, and literary fantasies that transcended the picturesque and spoke a universal language.


From that time to this, not without stumbling and blunders, Latin America has made progress although, as César Vallejo said in a poem, Hay, hermanos, muchísimo que hacer [There is still, brothers, so much to do]. We are afflicted with fewer dictatorships than before, only Cuba and her named successor, Venezuela, and some pseudo populist, clownish democracies like those in Bolivia and Nicaragua. But in the rest of the continent democracy is functioning, supported by a broad popular consensus, and for the first time in our history, as in Brazil, Chile, Uruguay, Peru, Colombia, the Dominican Republic, Mexico, and almost all of Central America, we have a left and a right that respect legality, the freedom to criticize, elections, and succession in power. That is the right road, and if it stays on it, combats insidious corruption, and continues to integrate with the world, Latin America will finally stop being the continent of the future and become the continent of the present.


I never felt like a foreigner in Europe or, in fact, anywhere. In all the places I have lived, in Paris, London, Barcelona, Madrid, Berlin, Washington, New York, Brazil, or the Dominican Republic, I felt at home. I have always found a lair where I could live in peace, work, learn things, nurture dreams, and find friends, good books to read, and subjects to write about. It does not seem to me that my unintentionally becoming a citizen of the world has weakened what are called "my roots," my connections to my own country – which would not be particularly important – because if that were so, my Peruvian experiences would not continue to nourish me as a writer and would not always appear in my stories, even when they seem to occur very far from Peru. I believe instead that living for so long outside the country where I was born has strengthened those connections, adding a more lucid perspective to them, and a nostalgia that can differentiate the adjectival from the substantive and keep memories reverberating. Love of the country where one was born cannot be obligatory, but like any other love must be a spontaneous act of the heart, like the one that unites lovers, parents and children, and friends.


I carry Peru deep inside me because that is where I was born, grew up, was formed, and lived those experiences of childhood and youth that shaped my personality and forged my calling, and there I loved, hated, enjoyed, suffered, and dreamed. What happens there affects me more, moves and exasperates me more than what occurs elsewhere. I have not wished it or imposed it on myself; it simply is so. Some compatriots accused me of being a traitor, and I was on the verge of losing my citizenship when, during the last dictatorship, I asked the democratic governments of the world to penalize the regime with diplomatic and economic sanctions, as I have always done with all dictatorships of any kind, whether of Pinochet, Fidel Castro, the Taliban in Afghanistan, the Imams in Iran, apartheid in South Africa, the uniformed satraps of Burma (now called Myanmar). And I would do it again tomorrow if – may destiny not wish it and Peruvians not permit it – Peru were once again the victim of a coup that would annihilate our fragile democracy. It was not the precipitate, emotional action of a resentful man, as some scribblers wrote, accustomed to judging others from the point of view of their own pettiness. It was an act in line with my conviction that a dictatorship represents absolute evil for a country, a source of brutality and corruption and profound wounds that take a long time to close, poison the nation"s future, and create pernicious habits and practices that endure for generations and delay democratic reconstruction. This is why dictatorships must be fought without hesitation, with all the means at our disposal, including economic sanctions. It is regrettable that democratic governments, instead of setting an example by making common cause with those, like the Damas de Blanco in Cuba, the Venezuelan opposition, or Aung San Suu Kyi and Liu Xiaobo, who courageously confront the dictatorships they endure, often show themselves complaisant not with them but with their tormenters. Those valiant people, struggling for their freedom, are also struggling for ours.


A compatriot of mine, José María Arguedas, called Peru the country of "every blood." I do not believe any formula defines it better: that is what we are and that is what all Peruvians carry inside us, whether we like it or not: an aggregate of traditions, races, beliefs, and cultures proceeding from the four cardinal points. I am proud to feel myself the heir to the pre-Hispanic cultures that created the textiles and feather mantles of Nazca and Paracas and the Mochican or Incan ceramics exhibited in the best museums in the world, the builders of Machu Picchu, Gran Chimú, Chan Chan, Kuelap, Sipán, the burial grounds of La Bruja and El Sol and La Luna, and to the Spaniards who, with their saddle bags, swords, and horses, brought to Peru Greece, Rome, the Judeo-Christian tradition, the Renaissance, Cervantes, Quevedo, and Góngora, and the harsh language of Castile sweetened by the Andes. And with Spain came Africa, with its strength, its music, and its effervescent imagination, to enrich Peruvian heterogeneity. If we investigate only a little we discover that Peru, like the Aleph of Borges, is a small format of the entire world. What an extraordinary privilege for a country not to have an identity because it has all of them!


The conquest of America was cruel and violent, like all conquests, of course, and we should criticize it but not forget as we do that those who committed pillage and crimes were, for the most part, our great-grandfathers and great-great-grandfathers, the Spaniards who came to America and adopted American ways, not those who remained in their own country. Such criticism, to be just, should be self-criticism. Because when we gained our independence from Spain two hundred years ago, those who assumed power in the former colonies, instead of liberating the Indians and creating justice for old wrongs, continued to exploit them with as much greed and ferocity as the conquerors and, in some countries, decimating and exterminating them. Let us say this with absolute clarity: for two centuries the emancipation of the indigenous population has been our exclusive responsibility, and we have not fulfilled it. This continues to be an unresolved issue in all of Latin America. There is not a single exception to this ignominy and shame.


I love Spain as much as Peru, and my debt to her is as great as my gratitude. If not for Spain, I never would have reached this podium or become a known writer and perhaps, like so many unfortunate colleagues, I would wander in the limbo of writers without luck, publishers, prizes, or readers, whose talent – sad comfort – posterity may one day discover. All my books were published in Spain, where I received exaggerated recognition, and friends like Carlos Barral, Carmen Balcells, and so many others were zealous about my stories having readers. And Spain granted me a second nationality when I could have lost mine. I have never felt the slightest incompatibility between being Peruvian and having a Spanish passport, because I have always felt that Spain and Peru are two sides of the same coin, not only in my small person but in essential realities like history, language, and culture.


Of all the years I have lived on Spanish soil, I remember as most brilliant the five I spent in a dearly loved Barcelona in the early 1970s. Franco"s dictatorship was still in power and shooting, but by then it was a fossil in rags, and especially in the field of culture, incapable of maintaining its earlier controls. Cracks and chinks were opening that the censors could not patch over, and through them Spanish society absorbed new ideas, books, currents of thought, and artistic values and forms prohibited until then as subversive. No city took as much or better advantage of this start of an opening than Barcelona or experienced a comparable excitement in all fields of ideas and creativity. It became the cultural capital of Spain, the place you had to be to breathe anticipation of the freedom to come. And, in a sense, it was also the cultural capital of Latin America because of the number of painters, writers, publishers, and artists from Latin American countries who either settled in or traveled back and forth to Barcelona: it was where you had to be if you wanted to be a poet, novelist, painter, or composer in our time. For me, those were unforgettable years of comradeship, friendship, plots, and fertile intellectual work. Just as Paris had been, Barcelona was a Tower of Babel, a cosmopolitan, universal city where it was stimulating to live and work and where, for the first time since the days of the Civil War, Spanish and Latin American writers mixed and fraternized, recognizing one another as possessors of the same tradition and allied in a common enterprise and certainty: the end of the dictatorship was imminent and in democratic Spain, culture would be the principal protagonist.


Although it did not occur exactly that way, the Spanish transition from dictatorship to democracy has been one of the best stories of modern times, an example of how, when good sense and reason prevail and political adversaries set aside sectarianism for the common good, events can occur as marvelous as the ones in novels of magic realism. The Spanish transition from authoritarianism to freedom, from underdevelopment to prosperity, from third-world economic contrasts and inequalities to a country of middle classes, her integration into Europe and her adoption in a few years of a democratic culture, has astonished the entire world and precipitated Spain"s modernization. It has been moving and instructive for me to experience this near at hand, at times from the inside. I fervently hope that nationalism, the incurable plague of the modern world and of Spain as well, does not ruin this happy tale.


I despise every form of nationalism, a provincial ideology – or rather, religion – that is short-sighted, exclusive, that cuts off the intellectual horizon and hides in its bosom ethnic and racist prejudices, for it transforms into a supreme value, a moral and ontological privilege, the fortuitous circumstance of one"s birthplace. Along with religion, nationalism has been the cause of the worst slaughters in history, like those in the two world wars and the current bloodletting in the Middle East. Nothing has contributed as much as nationalism to Latin America"s having been Balkanized and stained with blood in senseless battles and disputes, squandering astronomical resources to purchase weapons instead of building schools, libraries, and hospitals.


We should not confuse a blinkered nationalism and its rejection of the "other," always the seed of violence, with patriotism, a salutary, generous feeling of love for the land where we were born, where our ancestors lived, where our first dreams were forged, a familiar landscape of geographies, loved ones, and events that are transformed into signposts of memory and defenses against solitude. Homeland is not flags, anthems, or apodictic speeches about emblematic heroes, but a handful of places and people that populate our memories and tinge them with melancholy, the warm sensation that no matter where we are, there is a home for us to return to.


Peru is for me Arequipa, where I was born but never lived, a city my mother, grandparents, and aunts and uncles taught me to know through their memories and yearnings, because my entire family tribe, as Arequepeños tend to do, always carried the White City with them in their wandering existence. It is Piura in the desert, mesquite trees and the long-suffering burros that Piurans of my youth called "somebody else"s feet" – an elegant, sad name – where I discovered that storks did not bring babies into the world but couples made them by doing outrageous things that were a mortal sin. It is San Miguel Academy and the Varieties Theater where for the first time I saw a short work I had written produced on stage. It is the corner of Diego Ferré and Colón, in Lima"s Miraflores – we called it the Happy Neighborhood – where I exchanged short pants for long trousers, smoked my first cigarette, learned to dance, fall in love, and open my heart to girls. It is the dusty, pulsing editorial offices of the paper La Crónica where, at sixteen, I stood virgil over my first arms as a journalist, a trade that, along with literature, has occupied almost my entire life and, like books, has made me live more, know the world better, and be with men and women from everywhere and every class, excellent, good, bad, and execrable people. It is the Leoncio Prado Military Academy, where I learned that Peru was not the small middle-class redoubt where I had lived until then, confined and protected, but a large, ancient, rancorous, unequal country, shaken by all kinds of social storms. It is the clandestine cells of Cahuide where, with a handful of San Marcos students, we prepared the world revolution. And Peru is my friends in the Freedom Movement with whom for three years, in the midst of bombs, blackouts, and terrorist assassinations, we worked in defense of democracy and the culture of freedom.


Peru is Patricia, my cousin with the upturned nose and indomitable character, whom I was lucky enough to marry forty-five years ago and who still endures the manias, neuroses, and temper tantrums that help me to write. Without her my life would have dissolved a long time ago into a turbulent whirlwind, and Alvaro, Gonzalo, Morgana and the six grandchildren who extend and gladden our existence would not have been born. She does everything and does everything well. She solves problems, manages the economy, imposes order on chaos, keeps journalists and intrusive people at bay, defends my time, decides appointments and trips, packs and unpacks suitcases, and is so generous that even when she thinks she is rebuking me, she pays me the highest compliment: "Mario, the only thing you"re good for is writing."


Let us return to literature. The paradise of childhood is not a literary myth for me but a reality I lived and enjoyed in the large family house with three courtyards in Cochabamba, where with my cousins and school friends we could reproduce the stories of Tarzan and Salgari, and in the prefecture of Piura, where bats nested in the lofts, silent shadows that filled the starry nights of that hot land with mystery. During those years, writing was playing a game my family celebrated, something charming that earned applause for me, the grandson, the nephew, the son without a papa because my father had died and gone to heaven. He was a tall, good-looking man in a navy uniform whose photo adorned my night table, which I prayed to and then kissed before going to sleep. One Piuran morning – I do not think I have recovered from it yet – my mother revealed that the gentleman was, in fact, alive. And on that very day we were going to live with him in Lima. I was eleven years old, and from that moment everything changed. I lost my innocence and discovered loneliness, authority, adult life, and fear. My salvation was reading, reading good books, taking refuge in those worlds where life was glorious, intense, one adventure after another, where I could feel free and be happy again. And it was writing, in secret, like someone giving himself up to an unspeakable vice, a forbidden passion. Literature stopped being a game. It became a way of resisting adversity, protesting, rebelling, escaping the intolerable, my reason for living. From then until now, in every circumstance when I have felt disheartened or beaten down, on the edge of despair, giving myself body and soul to my work as a storyteller has been the light at the end of the tunnel, the plank that carries the shipwrecked man to shore.


Although it is very difficult and forces me to sweat blood and, like every writer, to feel at times the threat of paralysis, a dry season of the imagination, nothing has made me enjoy life as much as spending months and years constructing a story, from its uncertain beginnings, the image memory stores of a lived experience that becomes a restlessness, an enthusiasm, a daydream that then germinates into a project and the decision to attempt to convert the agitated cloud of phantoms into a story. "Writing is a way of living," said Flaubert. Yes, absolutely, a way of living with illusion and joy and a fire throwing out sparks in your head, struggling with intractable words until you master them, exploring the broad world like a hunter tracking down desirable prey to feed an embryonic fiction and appease the voracious appetite of every story that, as it grows, would like to devour every other story. Beginning to feel the vertigo a gestating novel leads us to, when it takes shape and seems to begin to live on its own, with characters that move, act, think, feel, and demand respect and consideration, on whom it is no longer possible to arbitrarily impose behavior or to deprive them of their free will without killing them, without having the story lose its power to persuade – this is an experience that continues to bewitch me as it did the first time, as complete and dizzying as making love to the woman you love for days, weeks, months, without stopping.

When speaking of fiction, I have talked a great deal about the novel and very little about the theater, another of its preeminent forms. A great injustice, of course. Theater was my first love, ever since, as an adolescent, I saw Arthur Miller"s Death of a Salesman at the Segura Theater in Lima, a performance that left me transfixed with emotion and precipitated my writing a drama with Incas. If there had been a theatrical movement in the Lima of the 1950s, I would have been a playwright rather than a novelist. There was not, and that must have turned me more and more toward narrative. But my love for the theater never ended; it dozed, curled up in the shadow of novels, like a temptation and a nostalgia, above all whenever I saw an enthralling play. In the late 1970s, the persistent memory of a hundred-year-old great-aunt, Mamaé, who in the final years of her life cut off her surrounding reality to take refuge in memories and fiction, suggested a story. And I felt, prophetically, that it was a story for the theater, that only on stage would it take on the animation and splendor of successful fictions. I wrote it with the tremulous excitement of a beginner and so enjoyed seeing it on stage with Norma Aleandro in the heroine"s role that since then, between novels and essays, I have relapsed several times. And I must add, I never imagined that at the age of seventy I would mount (I should say, stumble onto) a stage to act. That reckless adventure made me experience for the first time in my own flesh and bone the miracle it is for someone who has spent his life writing fictions to embody for a few hours a character of fantasy, to live the fiction in front of an audience. I can never adequately thank my dear friends, the director Joan Ollé and the actress Aitana Sánchez Gijón, for having encouraged me to share with them that fantastic experience (in spite of the panic that accompanied it).


Literature is a false representation of life that nevertheless helps us to understand life better, to orient ourselves in the labyrinth where we are born, pass by, and die. It compensates for the reverses and frustrations real life inflicts on us, and because of it we can decipher, at least partially, the hieroglyphic that existence tends to be for the great majority of human beings, principally those of us who generate more doubts than certainties and confess our perplexity before subjects like transcendence, individual and collective destiny, the soul, the sense or senselessness of history, the to and fro of rational knowledge.


I have always been fascinated to imagine the uncertain circumstance in which our ancestors – still barely different from animals, the language that allowed them to communicate with one another just recently born – in caves, around fires, on nights seething with the menace of lightning bolts, thunder claps, and growling beasts, began to invent and tell stories. That was the crucial moment in our destiny, because in those circles of primitive beings held by the voice and fantasy of the storyteller, civilization began, the long passage that gradually would humanize us and lead us to invent the autonomous individual, then disengage him from the tribe, devise science, the arts, law, freedom, and to scrutinize the innermost recesses of nature, the human body, space, and travel to the stars. Those tales, fables, myths, legends that resounded for the first time like new music before listeners intimidated by the mysteries and perils of a world where everything was unknown and dangerous, must have been a cool bath, a quiet pool for those spirits always on the alert, for whom existing meant barely eating, taking shelter from the elements, killing, and fornicating. From the time they began to dream collectively, to share their dreams, instigated by storytellers, they ceased to be tied to the treadmill of survival, a vortex of brutalizing tasks, and their life became dream, pleasure, fantasy, and a revolutionary plan: to break out of confinement and change and improve, a struggle to appease the desires and ambitions that stirred imagined lives in them, and the curiosity to clear away the mysteries that filled their surroundings.


This never-interrupted process was enriched when writing was born and stories, in addition to being heard, could be read, achieving the permanence literature confers on them. That is why this must be repeated incessantly until new generations are convinced of it: fiction is more than an entertainment, more than an intellectual exercise that sharpens one"s sensibility and awakens a critical spirit. It is an absolute necessity so that civilization continues to exist, renewing and preserving in us the best of what is human. So that we do not retreat into the savagery of isolation and life is not reduced to the pragmatism of specialists who see things profoundly but ignore what surrounds, precedes, and continues those things. So that we do not move from having the machines we invent serve us to being their servants and slaves. And because a world without literature would be a world without desires or ideals or irreverence, a world of automatons deprived of what makes the human being really human: the capacity to move out of oneself and into another, into others, modeled with the clay of our dreams.


From the cave to the skyscraper, from the club to weapons of mass destruction, from the tautological life of the tribe to the era of globalization, the fictions of literature have multiplied human experiences, preventing us from succumbing to lethargy, self-absorption, resignation. Nothing has sown so much disquiet, so disturbed our imagination and our desires as the life of lies we add, thanks to literature, to the one we have, so we can be protagonists in the great adventures, the great passions real life will never give us. The lies of literature become truths through us, the readers transformed, infected with longings and, through the fault of fiction, permanently questioning a mediocre reality. Sorcery, when literature offers us the hope of having what we do not have, being what we are not, acceding to that impossible existence where like pagan gods we feel mortal and eternal at the same time, that introduces into our spirits non-conformity and rebellion, which are behind all the heroic deeds that have contributed to the reduction of violence in human relationships. Reducing violence, not ending it. Because ours will always be, fortunately, an unfinished story. That is why we have to continue dreaming, reading, and writing, the most effective way we have found to alleviate our mortal condition, to defeat the corrosion of time, and to transform the impossible into possibility.


Reading changed dreams into life and life into dreams and placed the universe of literature within reach of the boy I once was. My mother told me the first things I wrote were continuations of the stories I read because it made me sad when they concluded or because I wanted to change their endings. And perhaps this is what I have spent my life doing without realizing it: prolonging in time, as I grew, matured, and aged, the stories that filled my childhood with exaltation and adventures.


I wish my mother were here, a woman who was moved to tears reading the poems of Amado Nervo and Pablo Neruda, and Grandfather Pedro too, with his large nose and gleaming bald head, who celebrated my verses, and Uncle Lucho, who urged me so energetically to throw myself body and soul into writing even though literature, in that time and place, compensated its devotees so badly. Throughout my life I have had people like that at my side, people who loved and encouraged me and infected me with their faith when I had doubts. Thanks to them, and certainly to my obstinacy and some luck, I have been able to devote most of my time to the passion, the vice, the marvel of writing, creating a parallel life where we can take refuge against adversity, one that makes the extraordinary natural and the natural extraordinary, that dissipates chaos, beautifies ugliness, eternalizes the moment, and turns death into a passing spectacle.


Writing stories was not easy. When they were turned into words, projects withered on the paper and ideas and images failed. How to reanimate them? Fortunately, the masters were there, teachers to learn from and examples to follow. Flaubert taught me that talent is unyielding discipline and long patience. Faulkner, that form – writing and structure – elevates or impoverishes subjects. Martorell, Cervantes, Dickens, Balzac, Tolstoy, Conrad, Thomas Mann, that scope and ambition are as important in a novel as stylistic dexterity and narrative strategy. Sartre, that words are acts, that a novel, a play, or an essay, engaged with the present moment and better options, can change the course of history. Camus and Orwell, that a literature stripped of morality is inhuman, and Malraux that heroism and the epic are as possible in the present as is the time of the Argonauts, the Odyssey, and the Iliad.


If in this address I were to summon all the writers to whom I owe a few things or a great deal, their shadows would plunge us into darkness. They are innumerable. In addition to revealing the secrets of the storytelling craft, they obliged me to explore the bottomless depths of humanity, admire its heroic deeds, and feel horror at its savagery. They were my most obliging friends, the ones who vitalized my calling and in whose books I discovered that there is hope even in the worst of circumstances, that living is worth the effort if only because without life we could not read or imagine stories.


At times I wondered whether writing was not a solipsistic luxury in countries like mine, where there were scant readers, so many people who were poor and illiterate, so much injustice, and where culture was a privilege of the few. These doubts, however, never stifled my calling, and I always kept writing even during those periods when earning a living absorbed most of my time. I believe I did the right thing, since if, for literature to flourish, it was first necessary for a society to achieve high culture, freedom, prosperity, and justice, it never would have existed. But thanks to literature, to the consciousness it shapes, the desires and longings it inspires, and our disenchantment with reality when we return from the journey to a beautiful fantasy, civilization is now less cruel than when storytellers began to humanize life with their fables. We would be worse than we are without the good books we have read, more conformist, not as restless, more submissive, and the critical spirit, the engine of progress, would not even exist. Like writing, reading is a protest against the insufficiencies of life. When we look in fiction for what is missing in life, we are saying, with no need to say it or even to know it, that life as it is does not satisfy our thirst for the absolute – the foundation of the human condition – and should be better. We invent fictions in order to live somehow the many lives we would like to lead when we barely have one at our disposal.


Without fictions we would be less aware of the importance of freedom for life to be livable, the hell it turns into when it is trampled underfoot by a tyrant, an ideology, or a religion. Let those who doubt that literature not only submerges us in the dream of beauty and happiness but alerts us to every kind of oppression, ask themselves why all regimes determined to control the behavior of citizens from cradle to grave fear it so much they establish systems of censorship to repress it and keep so wary an eye on independent writers. They do this because they know the risk of allowing the imagination to wander free in books, know how seditious fictions become when the reader compares the freedom that makes them possible and is exercised in them with the obscurantism and fear lying in wait in the real world. Whether they want it or not, know it or not, when they invent stories the writers of tales propagate dissatisfaction, demonstrating that the world is badly made and the life of fantasy richer than the life of our daily routine. This fact, if it takes root in their sensibility and consciousness, makes citizens more difficult to manipulate, less willing to accept the lies of the interrogators and jailers who would like to make them believe that behind bars they lead more secure and better lives.


Good literature erects bridges between different peoples, and by having us enjoy, suffer, or feel surprise, unites us beneath the languages, beliefs, habits, customs, and prejudices that separate us. When the great white whale buries Captain Ahab in the sea, the hearts of readers take fright in exactly the same way in Tokyo, Lima, or Timbuctu. When Emma Bovary swallows arsenic, Anna Karenina throws herself in front of the train, and Julien Sorel climbs to the scaffold, and when, in "El sur," the urban doctor Juan Dahlmann walks out of that tavern on the pampa to face a thug"s knife, or we realize that all the residents of Comala, Pedro Páramo"s village, are dead, the shudder is the same in the reader who worships Buddha, Confucius, Christ, Allah, or is an agnostic, wears a jacket and tie, a jalaba, a kimono, or bombachas. Literature creates a fraternity within human diversity and eclipses the frontiers erected among men and women by ignorance, ideologies, religions, languages, and stupidity.


Since every period has its horrors, ours is the age of fanatics, of suicide terrorists, an ancient species convinced that by killing they earn heaven, that the blood of innocents washes away collective affronts, corrects injustices, and imposes truth on false beliefs. Every day, all over the world, countless victims are sacrificed by those who feel they possess absolute truths. With the collapse of totalitarian empires, we believed that living together, peace, pluralism, and human rights would gain the ascendancy and the world would leave behind holocausts, genocides, invasions, and wars of extermination. None of that has occurred. New forms of barbarism flourish, incited by fanaticism, and with the proliferation of weapons of mass destruction, we cannot overlook the fact that any small faction of crazed redeemers may one day provoke a nuclear cataclysm. We have to thwart them, confront them, and defeat them. There aren"t many, although the tumult of their crimes resounds all over the planet and the nightmares they provoke overwhelm us with dread. We should not allow ourselves to be intimidated by those who want to snatch away the freedom we have been acquiring over the long course of civilization. Let us defend the liberal democracy that, with all its limitations, continues to signify political pluralism, coexistence, tolerance, human rights, respect for criticism, legality, free elections, alternation in power, everything that has been taking us out of a savage life and bringing us closer – though we will never attain it – to the beautiful, perfect life literature devises, the one we can deserve only by inventing, writing, and reading it. By confronting homicidal fanatics we defend our right to dream and to make our dreams reality.


In my youth, like many writers of my generation, I was a Marxist and believed socialism would be the remedy for the exploitation and social injustices that were becoming more severe in my country, in Latin America, and in the rest of the Third World. My disillusion with statism and collectivism and my transition to the democrat and liberal that I am – that I try to be – was long and difficult and carried out slowly as a consequence of episodes like the conversion of the Cuban Revolution, about which I initially had been enthusiastic, to the authoritarian, vertical model of the Soviet Union; the testimony of dissidents who managed to slip past the barbed wire fences of the Gulag; the invasion of Czechoslovakia by the nations of the Warsaw Pact; and because of thinkers like Raymond Aron, Jean Francois Rével, Isaiah Berlin, and Karl Popper, to whom I owe my reevaluation of democratic culture and open societies. Those masters were an example of lucidity and gallant courage when the intelligentsia of the West, as a result of frivolity or opportunism, appeared to have succumbed to the spell of Soviet socialism or, even worse, to the bloody witches" Sabbath of the Chinese Cultural Revolution.


As a boy I dreamed of coming some day to Paris because, dazzled by French literature, I believed that living there and breathing the air breathed by Balzac, Stendhal, Baudelaire, and Proust would help transform me into a real writer, and if I did not leave Peru I would be only a pseudo Sundays-and-holidays writer. And the truth is I owe to France and French culture unforgettable lessons, for example that literature is as much a calling as it is a discipline, a job, an obstinacy. I lived there when Sartre and Camus were alive and writing, in the years of Ionesco, Beckett, Bataille, and Cioran, the discovery of the theater of Brecht and the films of Ingmar Bergman, the Theatre National Populaire of Jean Vilar and the Odéon of Jean-Louis Barrault, of the Nouvelle Vague and the Nouveau Roman and the speeches, beautiful literary pieces, of André Malraux, and what may have been the most theatrical spectacle in Europe during that time, the press conferences and Olympic thunderings of General de Gaulle. But perhaps I am most grateful to France for the discovery of Latin America. There I learned that Peru was part of a vast community united by history, geography, social and political problems, a certain mode of being, and the delicious language it spoke and wrote. And in those same years, it was producing a new, forceful literature. There I read Borges, Octavio Paz, Cortázar, García Márquez, Fuentes, Cabrera Infante, Rulfo, Onetti, Carpentier, Edwards, Donoso, and many others whose writings were revolutionizing narrative in the Spanish language, and thanks to whom Europe and a good part of the world discovered that Latin America was not the continent only of coups, operetta despots, bearded guerrillas, and the maracas of the mambo and the cha-cha-cha but of ideas, artistic forms, and literary fantasies that transcended the picturesque and spoke a universal language.


From that time to this, not without stumbling and blunders, Latin America has made progress although, as César Vallejo said in a poem, Hay, hermanos, muchísimo que hacer [There is still, brothers, so much to do]. We are afflicted with fewer dictatorships than before, only Cuba and her named successor, Venezuela, and some pseudo populist, clownish democracies like those in Bolivia and Nicaragua. But in the rest of the continent democracy is functioning, supported by a broad popular consensus, and for the first time in our history, as in Brazil, Chile, Uruguay, Peru, Colombia, the Dominican Republic, Mexico, and almost all of Central America, we have a left and a right that respect legality, the freedom to criticize, elections, and succession in power. That is the right road, and if it stays on it, combats insidious corruption, and continues to integrate with the world, Latin America will finally stop being the continent of the future and become the continent of the present.


I never felt like a foreigner in Europe or, in fact, anywhere. In all the places I have lived, in Paris, London, Barcelona, Madrid, Berlin, Washington, New York, Brazil, or the Dominican Republic, I felt at home. I have always found a lair where I could live in peace, work, learn things, nurture dreams, and find friends, good books to read, and subjects to write about. It does not seem to me that my unintentionally becoming a citizen of the world has weakened what are called "my roots," my connections to my own country – which would not be particularly important – because if that were so, my Peruvian experiences would not continue to nourish me as a writer and would not always appear in my stories, even when they seem to occur very far from Peru. I believe instead that living for so long outside the country where I was born has strengthened those connections, adding a more lucid perspective to them, and a nostalgia that can differentiate the adjectival from the substantive and keep memories reverberating. Love of the country where one was born cannot be obligatory, but like any other love must be a spontaneous act of the heart, like the one that unites lovers, parents and children, and friends.


I carry Peru deep inside me because that is where I was born, grew up, was formed, and lived those experiences of childhood and youth that shaped my personality and forged my calling, and there I loved, hated, enjoyed, suffered, and dreamed. What happens there affects me more, moves and exasperates me more than what occurs elsewhere. I have not wished it or imposed it on myself; it simply is so. Some compatriots accused me of being a traitor, and I was on the verge of losing my citizenship when, during the last dictatorship, I asked the democratic governments of the world to penalize the regime with diplomatic and economic sanctions, as I have always done with all dictatorships of any kind, whether of Pinochet, Fidel Castro, the Taliban in Afghanistan, the Imams in Iran, apartheid in South Africa, the uniformed satraps of Burma (now called Myanmar). And I would do it again tomorrow if – may destiny not wish it and Peruvians not permit it – Peru were once again the victim of a coup that would annihilate our fragile democracy. It was not the precipitate, emotional action of a resentful man, as some scribblers wrote, accustomed to judging others from the point of view of their own pettiness. It was an act in line with my conviction that a dictatorship represents absolute evil for a country, a source of brutality and corruption and profound wounds that take a long time to close, poison the nation"s future, and create pernicious habits and practices that endure for generations and delay democratic reconstruction. This is why dictatorships must be fought without hesitation, with all the means at our disposal, including economic sanctions. It is regrettable that democratic governments, instead of setting an example by making common cause with those, like the Damas de Blanco in Cuba, the Venezuelan opposition, or Aung San Suu Kyi and Liu Xiaobo, who courageously confront the dictatorships they endure, often show themselves complaisant not with them but with their tormenters. Those valiant people, struggling for their freedom, are also struggling for ours.


A compatriot of mine, José María Arguedas, called Peru the country of "every blood." I do not believe any formula defines it better: that is what we are and that is what all Peruvians carry inside us, whether we like it or not: an aggregate of traditions, races, beliefs, and cultures proceeding from the four cardinal points. I am proud to feel myself the heir to the pre-Hispanic cultures that created the textiles and feather mantles of Nazca and Paracas and the Mochican or Incan ceramics exhibited in the best museums in the world, the builders of Machu Picchu, Gran Chimú, Chan Chan, Kuelap, Sipán, the burial grounds of La Bruja and El Sol and La Luna, and to the Spaniards who, with their saddle bags, swords, and horses, brought to Peru Greece, Rome, the Judeo-Christian tradition, the Renaissance, Cervantes, Quevedo, and Góngora, and the harsh language of Castile sweetened by the Andes. And with Spain came Africa, with its strength, its music, and its effervescent imagination, to enrich Peruvian heterogeneity. If we investigate only a little we discover that Peru, like the Aleph of Borges, is a small format of the entire world. What an extraordinary privilege for a country not to have an identity because it has all of them!


The conquest of America was cruel and violent, like all conquests, of course, and we should criticize it but not forget as we do that those who committed pillage and crimes were, for the most part, our great-grandfathers and great-great-grandfathers, the Spaniards who came to America and adopted American ways, not those who remained in their own country. Such criticism, to be just, should be self-criticism. Because when we gained our independence from Spain two hundred years ago, those who assumed power in the former colonies, instead of liberating the Indians and creating justice for old wrongs, continued to exploit them with as much greed and ferocity as the conquerors and, in some countries, decimating and exterminating them. Let us say this with absolute clarity: for two centuries the emancipation of the indigenous population has been our exclusive responsibility, and we have not fulfilled it. This continues to be an unresolved issue in all of Latin America. There is not a single exception to this ignominy and shame.


I love Spain as much as Peru, and my debt to her is as great as my gratitude. If not for Spain, I never would have reached this podium or become a known writer and perhaps, like so many unfortunate colleagues, I would wander in the limbo of writers without luck, publishers, prizes, or readers, whose talent – sad comfort – posterity may one day discover. All my books were published in Spain, where I received exaggerated recognition, and friends like Carlos Barral, Carmen Balcells, and so many others were zealous about my stories having readers. And Spain granted me a second nationality when I could have lost mine. I have never felt the slightest incompatibility between being Peruvian and having a Spanish passport, because I have always felt that Spain and Peru are two sides of the same coin, not only in my small person but in essential realities like history, language, and culture.


Of all the years I have lived on Spanish soil, I remember as most brilliant the five I spent in a dearly loved Barcelona in the early 1970s. Franco"s dictatorship was still in power and shooting, but by then it was a fossil in rags, and especially in the field of culture, incapable of maintaining its earlier controls. Cracks and chinks were opening that the censors could not patch over, and through them Spanish society absorbed new ideas, books, currents of thought, and artistic values and forms prohibited until then as subversive. No city took as much or better advantage of this start of an opening than Barcelona or experienced a comparable excitement in all fields of ideas and creativity. It became the cultural capital of Spain, the place you had to be to breathe anticipation of the freedom to come. And, in a sense, it was also the cultural capital of Latin America because of the number of painters, writers, publishers, and artists from Latin American countries who either settled in or traveled back and forth to Barcelona: it was where you had to be if you wanted to be a poet, novelist, painter, or composer in our time. For me, those were unforgettable years of comradeship, friendship, plots, and fertile intellectual work. Just as Paris had been, Barcelona was a Tower of Babel, a cosmopolitan, universal city where it was stimulating to live and work and where, for the first time since the days of the Civil War, Spanish and Latin American writers mixed and fraternized, recognizing one another as possessors of the same tradition and allied in a common enterprise and certainty: the end of the dictatorship was imminent and in democratic Spain, culture would be the principal protagonist.


Although it did not occur exactly that way, the Spanish transition from dictatorship to democracy has been one of the best stories of modern times, an example of how, when good sense and reason prevail and political adversaries set aside sectarianism for the common good, events can occur as marvelous as the ones in novels of magic realism. The Spanish transition from authoritarianism to freedom, from underdevelopment to prosperity, from third-world economic contrasts and inequalities to a country of middle classes, her integration into Europe and her adoption in a few years of a democratic culture, has astonished the entire world and precipitated Spain"s modernization. It has been moving and instructive for me to experience this near at hand, at times from the inside. I fervently hope that nationalism, the incurable plague of the modern world and of Spain as well, does not ruin this happy tale.


I despise every form of nationalism, a provincial ideology – or rather, religion – that is short-sighted, exclusive, that cuts off the intellectual horizon and hides in its bosom ethnic and racist prejudices, for it transforms into a supreme value, a moral and ontological privilege, the fortuitous circumstance of one"s birthplace. Along with religion, nationalism has been the cause of the worst slaughters in history, like those in the two world wars and the current bloodletting in the Middle East. Nothing has contributed as much as nationalism to Latin America"s having been Balkanized and stained with blood in senseless battles and disputes, squandering astronomical resources to purchase weapons instead of building schools, libraries, and hospitals.


We should not confuse a blinkered nationalism and its rejection of the "other," always the seed of violence, with patriotism, a salutary, generous feeling of love for the land where we were born, where our ancestors lived, where our first dreams were forged, a familiar landscape of geographies, loved ones, and events that are transformed into signposts of memory and defenses against solitude. Homeland is not flags, anthems, or apodictic speeches about emblematic heroes, but a handful of places and people that populate our memories and tinge them with melancholy, the warm sensation that no matter where we are, there is a home for us to return to.


Peru is for me Arequipa, where I was born but never lived, a city my mother, grandparents, and aunts and uncles taught me to know through their memories and yearnings, because my entire family tribe, as Arequepeños tend to do, always carried the White City with them in their wandering existence. It is Piura in the desert, mesquite trees and the long-suffering burros that Piurans of my youth called "somebody else"s feet" – an elegant, sad name – where I discovered that storks did not bring babies into the world but couples made them by doing outrageous things that were a mortal sin. It is San Miguel Academy and the Varieties Theater where for the first time I saw a short work I had written produced on stage. It is the corner of Diego Ferré and Colón, in Lima"s Miraflores – we called it the Happy Neighborhood – where I exchanged short pants for long trousers, smoked my first cigarette, learned to dance, fall in love, and open my heart to girls. It is the dusty, pulsing editorial offices of the paper La Crónica where, at sixteen, I stood virgil over my first arms as a journalist, a trade that, along with literature, has occupied almost my entire life and, like books, has made me live more, know the world better, and be with men and women from everywhere and every class, excellent, good, bad, and execrable people. It is the Leoncio Prado Military Academy, where I learned that Peru was not the small middle-class redoubt where I had lived until then, confined and protected, but a large, ancient, rancorous, unequal country, shaken by all kinds of social storms. It is the clandestine cells of Cahuide where, with a handful of San Marcos students, we prepared the world revolution. And Peru is my friends in the Freedom Movement with whom for three years, in the midst of bombs, blackouts, and terrorist assassinations, we worked in defense of democracy and the culture of freedom.


Peru is Patricia, my cousin with the upturned nose and indomitable character, whom I was lucky enough to marry forty-five years ago and who still endures the manias, neuroses, and temper tantrums that help me to write. Without her my life would have dissolved a long time ago into a turbulent whirlwind, and Alvaro, Gonzalo, Morgana and the six grandchildren who extend and gladden our existence would not have been born. She does everything and does everything well. She solves problems, manages the economy, imposes order on chaos, keeps journalists and intrusive people at bay, defends my time, decides appointments and trips, packs and unpacks suitcases, and is so generous that even when she thinks she is rebuking me, she pays me the highest compliment: "Mario, the only thing you"re good for is writing."


Let us return to literature. The paradise of childhood is not a literary myth for me but a reality I lived and enjoyed in the large family house with three courtyards in Cochabamba, where with my cousins and school friends we could reproduce the stories of Tarzan and Salgari, and in the prefecture of Piura, where bats nested in the lofts, silent shadows that filled the starry nights of that hot land with mystery. During those years, writing was playing a game my family celebrated, something charming that earned applause for me, the grandson, the nephew, the son without a papa because my father had died and gone to heaven. He was a tall, good-looking man in a navy uniform whose photo adorned my night table, which I prayed to and then kissed before going to sleep. One Piuran morning – I do not think I have recovered from it yet – my mother revealed that the gentleman was, in fact, alive. And on that very day we were going to live with him in Lima. I was eleven years old, and from that moment everything changed. I lost my innocence and discovered loneliness, authority, adult life, and fear. My salvation was reading, reading good books, taking refuge in those worlds where life was glorious, intense, one adventure after another, where I could feel free and be happy again. And it was writing, in secret, like someone giving himself up to an unspeakable vice, a forbidden passion. Literature stopped being a game. It became a way of resisting adversity, protesting, rebelling, escaping the intolerable, my reason for living. From then until now, in every circumstance when I have felt disheartened or beaten down, on the edge of despair, giving myself body and soul to my work as a storyteller has been the light at the end of the tunnel, the plank that carries the shipwrecked man to shore.


Although it is very difficult and forces me to sweat blood and, like every writer, to feel at times the threat of paralysis, a dry season of the imagination, nothing has made me enjoy life as much as spending months and years constructing a story, from its uncertain beginnings, the image memory stores of a lived experience that becomes a restlessness, an enthusiasm, a daydream that then germinates into a project and the decision to attempt to convert the agitated cloud of phantoms into a story. "Writing is a way of living," said Flaubert. Yes, absolutely, a way of living with illusion and joy and a fire throwing out sparks in your head, struggling with intractable words until you master them, exploring the broad world like a hunter tracking down desirable prey to feed an embryonic fiction and appease the voracious appetite of every story that, as it grows, would like to devour every other story. Beginning to feel the vertigo a gestating novel leads us to, when it takes shape and seems to begin to live on its own, with characters that move, act, think, feel, and demand respect and consideration, on whom it is no longer possible to arbitrarily impose behavior or to deprive them of their free will without killing them, without having the story lose its power to persuade – this is an experience that continues to bewitch me as it did the first time, as complete and dizzying as making love to the woman you love for days, weeks, months, without stopping.

When speaking of fiction, I have talked a great deal about the novel and very little about the theater, another of its preeminent forms. A great injustice, of course. Theater was my first love, ever since, as an adolescent, I saw Arthur Miller"s Death of a Salesman at the Segura Theater in Lima, a performance that left me transfixed with emotion and precipitated my writing a drama with Incas. If there had been a theatrical movement in the Lima of the 1950s, I would have been a playwright rather than a novelist. There was not, and that must have turned me more and more toward narrative. But my love for the theater never ended; it dozed, curled up in the shadow of novels, like a temptation and a nostalgia, above all whenever I saw an enthralling play. In the late 1970s, the persistent memory of a hundred-year-old great-aunt, Mamaé, who in the final years of her life cut off her surrounding reality to take refuge in memories and fiction, suggested a story. And I felt, prophetically, that it was a story for the theater, that only on stage would it take on the animation and splendor of successful fictions. I wrote it with the tremulous excitement of a beginner and so enjoyed seeing it on stage with Norma Aleandro in the heroine"s role that since then, between novels and essays, I have relapsed several times. And I must add, I never imagined that at the age of seventy I would mount (I should say, stumble onto) a stage to act. That reckless adventure made me experience for the first time in my own flesh and bone the miracle it is for someone who has spent his life writing fictions to embody for a few hours a character of fantasy, to live the fiction in front of an audience. I can never adequately thank my dear friends, the director Joan Ollé and the actress Aitana Sánchez Gijón, for having encouraged me to share with them that fantastic experience (in spite of the panic that accompanied it).


Literature is a false representation of life that nevertheless helps us to understand life better, to orient ourselves in the labyrinth where we are born, pass by, and die. It compensates for the reverses and frustrations real life inflicts on us, and because of it we can decipher, at least partially, the hieroglyphic that existence tends to be for the great majority of human beings, principally those of us who generate more doubts than certainties and confess our perplexity before subjects like transcendence, individual and collective destiny, the soul, the sense or senselessness of history, the to and fro of rational knowledge.


I have always been fascinated to imagine the uncertain circumstance in which our ancestors – still barely different from animals, the language that allowed them to communicate with one another just recently born – in caves, around fires, on nights seething with the menace of lightning bolts, thunder claps, and growling beasts, began to invent and tell stories. That was the crucial moment in our destiny, because in those circles of primitive beings held by the voice and fantasy of the storyteller, civilization began, the long passage that gradually would humanize us and lead us to invent the autonomous individual, then disengage him from the tribe, devise science, the arts, law, freedom, and to scrutinize the innermost recesses of nature, the human body, space, and travel to the stars. Those tales, fables, myths, legends that resounded for the first time like new music before listeners intimidated by the mysteries and perils of a world where everything was unknown and dangerous, must have been a cool bath, a quiet pool for those spirits always on the alert, for whom existing meant barely eating, taking shelter from the elements, killing, and fornicating. From the time they began to dream collectively, to share their dreams, instigated by storytellers, they ceased to be tied to the treadmill of survival, a vortex of brutalizing tasks, and their life became dream, pleasure, fantasy, and a revolutionary plan: to break out of confinement and change and improve, a struggle to appease the desires and ambitions that stirred imagined lives in them, and the curiosity to clear away the mysteries that filled their surroundings.


This never-interrupted process was enriched when writing was born and stories, in addition to being heard, could be read, achieving the permanence literature confers on them. That is why this must be repeated incessantly until new generations are convinced of it: fiction is more than an entertainment, more than an intellectual exercise that sharpens one"s sensibility and awakens a critical spirit. It is an absolute necessity so that civilization continues to exist, renewing and preserving in us the best of what is human. So that we do not retreat into the savagery of isolation and life is not reduced to the pragmatism of specialists who see things profoundly but ignore what surrounds, precedes, and continues those things. So that we do not move from having the machines we invent serve us to being their servants and slaves. And because a world without literature would be a world without desires or ideals or irreverence, a world of automatons deprived of what makes the human being really human: the capacity to move out of oneself and into another, into others, modeled with the clay of our dreams.


From the cave to the skyscraper, from the club to weapons of mass destruction, from the tautological life of the tribe to the era of globalization, the fictions of literature have multiplied human experiences, preventing us from succumbing to lethargy, self-absorption, resignation. Nothing has sown so much disquiet, so disturbed our imagination and our desires as the life of lies we add, thanks to literature, to the one we have, so we can be protagonists in the great adventures, the great passions real life will never give us. The lies of literature become truths through us, the readers transformed, infected with longings and, through the fault of fiction, permanently questioning a mediocre reality. Sorcery, when literature offers us the hope of having what we do not have, being what we are not, acceding to that impossible existence where like pagan gods we feel mortal and eternal at the same time, that introduces into our spirits non-conformity and rebellion, which are behind all the heroic deeds that have contributed to the reduction of violence in human relationships. Reducing violence, not ending it. Because ours will always be, fortunately, an unfinished story. That is why we have to continue dreaming, reading, and writing, the most effective way we have found to alleviate our mortal condition, to defeat the corrosion of time, and to transform the impossible into possibility.