Page 66 - Fingerprints of the Gods by Graham Hancock

Graham Hancock – FINGERPRINTS OF THE GODS

Colombian civilization; in consequence the ruins were protected from
looters and souvenir hunters and an important chunk of the enigmatic
past was preserved to amaze future generations.
Having passed through a one-horse town named Agua Caliente (Hot
Water), where a few broken-down restaurants and cheap bars leered at
travellers from beside the tracks, we reached Machu Picchu Puentas
Ruinas station at ten minutes past nine in the morning. From here a half-
hour bus ride on a winding dirt road up the side of a steep and
forbidding mountain brought us to Machu Picchu itself, to the ruins, and
to a bad hotel which charged us a nonsensical amount of money for a not
very clean room. We were the only guests. Though it had been years since
the local guerrilla movement had last bombed the Machu Picchu train, not
many foreigners were keen to come here any more.

Machu Picchu dreaming

It was two in the afternoon. I stood on a high point at the southern end of
the site. The ruins stretched out northwards in lichen-enshrouded
terraces before me. Thick clouds were wrapped in a ring around the
mountain tops but the sunlight still occasionally burst through here and
there.
Way down on the valley floor I could see the sacred river curled in a
hairpin loop right around the central formation on which Machu Picchu
was based, like a moat surrounding a giant castle. The river showed deep
green from this vantage point, reflecting the greenness of the steep
jungle slopes. And there were patches of white water and wonderful
sparkling gleams of light.
I gazed across the ruins towards the dominant peak. Its name is Huana
Picchu and it used to feature in all the classic travel agency posters of this
site. To my astonishment I now observed that for a hundred metres or so
below its summit it had been neatly terraced and sculpted: somebody had
been up there and had carefully raked the near-vertical cliffs into a
graceful hanging garden which had perhaps in ancient times been
planted with bright flowers.
It seemed to me that the entire site, together with its setting, was a
monumental work of sculpture composed in part of mountains, in part of
rock, in part of trees, in part of stones—and also in part of water. It was a
heartachingly beautiful place, certainly one of the most beautiful places I
have ever seen.
Despite its luminous brilliance, however, I felt that I was gazing down
on to a city of ghosts. It was like the wreck of the Marie Celeste, deserted
and restless. The houses were arranged in long terraces. Each house was
tiny, with just one room fronting directly on to the narrow street, and the
architecture was solid and functional but by no means ornate. By way of
contrast certain ceremonial areas were engineered to an infinitely higher

64