Honeymoon in Machu Picchu

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Guest Post by Al Coffman

Our honeymoon was typical for a couple of our age; Piper and I were
headed to South America with our teenagers Flava and Inigo.¹ I had recently finished re-reading the spiritual memoir of Native American writer Jamie Sams. Her book, Midnight Song, began and ended on a Peruvian mountaintop in the Incan settlement at Machu Pichu, and a trip to the ancient royal retreat awaited us. On our way back to Oregon, we would stop and visit Piper’s parents in Pennsylvania. Primed for adventure, little did we expect a harrowing journey into the distant past. 

After purchasing travel gear, creating a first aid kit of essential oils, and preparing for altitude sickness, there was one small item left on our pre-trip list: should we get married before we set sail? It might prove helpful for springing a loved one from jail, or weighing in on medical decisions in a hospital—who knew what lay ahead? As they say in my native Wisconsin, “Hope for da best, prepare for da Wurst.”

One afternoon soon before our scheduled liftoff, Piper came home from work, looked at me and said, “I think today is the day.” We called up the preacher and two friends to act as witnesses and sped 45 minutes to a remote waterfall, hoping not to lose the light. 

We set up a table on flat rocks in the middle of the stream, twenty yards below the burbling Alsea Falls. Piper and I had crafted vows ending with the line, “…and then I lick the bowl clean,” but at the last minute Piper thought it crossed the silliness threshold: “We should leave that out.” She went first and read the vows as revised. I slyly ended my own with “the line.” Piper stared at me, poked me in the ribs, and we laughed long and loud. 

We landed in Lima, the capitol city of Peru, late in the evening. Our cab drove endlessly through a dark city, and at last we checked into the similarly dark Hotel Bolivar. Were we breaking curfew? 

In the morning we took a small plane to Cusco, the spiritual and political center of ancient Peru. A strategic city, Cusco’s fall to the Spanish Conquistadors was a milestone in the decline of the Incan empire. As we walked toward the terminal in the Cusco airport, I confessed to Piper, “From here on we have to wing it; I don’t have the final connections to Machu Picchu worked out.”

As we came off the ramp into the terminal building, a well-dressed woman approached us and asked, “Do you need any help? I’m a tour guide.” We instantly clicked with Maria’s energy and signed on with her. She took wonderful care of us, down to the smallest of details. 

Our charming hotel in Cusco, just off the old central square, was built hacienda style with a marvelous inner courtyard. Flava didn’t want to leave its warm embrace. Ironically a number of battles took place in that scenic part of the city.

We meandered through the square and ditched the idea of a longer walk when we spied a Peruvian bakery. An array of unfamiliar delights awaited us. Each of us picked a different treat, and we immersed ourselves in a range of flavors and textures. 

Maria booked us on a train to Aguas Calientes, a small town near the base of Machu Picchu. Our two-hour journey began with a slow, forward and then reverse, forward then reverse, zigzag path up the steep mountainside, the maneuver required to reach the tracks which would take us out of town. At one stop along the way the platform was filled with women selling brightly embroidered bags and blankets through the high windows of the train. 

The walk through Aguas Calientes to our hostel was long and winding, and we shifted our bags into backpack mode, now carrying our gear with ease. The night’s resting place was built like a tree house, which instantly charmed Flava and Inigo. Our rooms were on the second and third floors, providing a view of the Urubamba River below and a glimpse of Machu Picchu in the distance. 

Just as we were settling in to sleep there was a persistent knock at the first floor door. We roused ourselves to find Maria standing there with a flashlight, asking for our passports and some money. We were sleepy and a bit confused, and the request tested our trust.

Then she explained that she needed our papers to buy tickets for the morning bus to Machu Picchu. Maria brought our precious billets—and passports—back to us an hour later. She must have woken some poor soul to procure those tickets. 

In the morning gloom of 6 a.m. our tour bus pulled in at the base of Machu Picchu. A chill mist obscured everything, so dense that I could only focus on finding the next stone step up the steep slope. From the archway which guards the entrance to the compound, we could not see Huayna Picchu, the peak that forms a backdrop in famous photos of the settlement, nor the mountains which surround Machu Picchu. 

As the morning progressed the fog gradually retreated, providing a slow reveal of truly breathtaking beauty. My thoughts went back to a scene in Midnight Song, where Jamie Sams left her tour for a stealthy side trip to meet a mysterious contact. Could I intuit my way to that spot? I never “found” it, but our persistent poking around the steep slopes led us to hidden sides of Machu Picchu. 

Was this mountain hideaway, overgrown and long eluding discovery, a vacation retreat for Incan kings and queens? Or was its main purpose to serve as a military command center during the long wars with the Spanish? Very likely both. Everywhere we witnessed the seamless fit of massive, smooth stones. “How did they do it?” remains a source of endless speculation.

The impressive masonry drew its material from a mountain top quarry which the builders used to create royal lodgings and servants’ quarters. An intricate system of aqueducts served a range of daily needs, from irrigating expansive terraced fields, to filling a royal bathtub that offered a stunning view. 

On a lower level we wandered into a room with several curious recesses on three sides. Playing around we found that by whispering or quietly chanting with our heads inside those niches, our voices could be heard by those leaning into other indentations. An Incan cone of silence!  A group of tourists from China, very curious about what we were up to, came in as we each picked a recess in the wall and began chanting the sacred word HU.   

On the bus back to Aguas Calientes we could peer down at hairpin turns earlier obscured by darkness and mist. A young daredevil on a motorbike made his way directly down the steep slopes, beating us back to town. That night we wandered about hunting for sustenance, and stumbled across an amazing French-Peruvian restaurant. So many tasty dishes, so little time. 

Maria suggested that rather than return by train we should hire a driver and explore the area. What a gift. Up in the clouds, at 12,400 feet, we spent an hour exploring the high historic fortress complex of Sacsayhuaman, “The Place where the Hawk is Satiated.”

Later we stopped at the house of a small family who entertained tourists. Our hostess fed us steamed papas (potatoes), and we sipped strawberry-potato beer. The inside of the mud walls were ringed with tiny fenced platforms reminiscent of a model train track. It was a guinea pig run, an indoor pasture for tiny, furry livestock. 

For our final meal in Peru we walked to a restaurant near the hotel. Piper hadn’t had any problems with the food so far, and she was feeling adventurous. She ordered baked guinea pig and, against best advice for travelers, had a fresh salad.

The guinea pig was served whole: furry skin on, belly up, stretched out with all four limbs pinned to the platter. Inigo added a dash of catsup coming out of its mouth. Flava screamed. Piper laughed. A musician masterfully played the pan-pipes in the background. It was a fitting punctuation to our time in Peru. 

The next morning Piper paid the pan-piper: she awoke with an intense fever. I wet her down with huge bath towels, attempting to bring down her temperature, but there was no relief. Was it that salad? An hour later we needed to check out of our room, but Piper continued to run a high fever.

We would be out on the street for three hours before hailing a cab to the airport. What now? Our sympathetic host offered to put Piper up—in a room just big enough for a bed—until it was time for us to leave. 

Piper was burning up, and drifted in and out of consciousness. Days later she related her inner experiences in that fever-dream state: “Most of my dreams were in black and white. I revisited numerous lifetimes where I was in chains or locked in a dank dungeon. I understood that I was repaying debts for lives as a Spanish conquistador and Aztec warrior, when I terrorized countless souls.”

In Cusco, this lasted for two or three hours, but in the dream state, this bonus side trip lasted for years. Piper’s tiny room was a time-traveling jail cell. 

Back in the physical world, we made our way to the airport. Flava, Inigo and I had to navigate cabs, airplanes, and airports with a barely conscious Piper. We made a great team; it was a bonding experience. The gracious airport staffs in Cusco and Lima provided us with wheelchairs, moved us to the head of lines, and whisked us through security.

While we waited for our next flights, Piper rested in her wheelchair, making it easy for us to roll her around the airports and keep urgent appointments with a baño (bathroom). South American hospitality was precious. 

The staff at the Atlanta airport wheeled her from the plane, but refused to let us keep the chair. We could see several empty wheelchairs looking for work, but according to “the rules,” we could not keep one—and the wait for our next flight was over four hours. The fellow behind the desk clearly wanted to help, but policy was policy. To his credit, he steered us toward a seldom used waiting area out of the flow of traffic—with a bathroom nearby.

We emptied our carry-on bags of their textile bounty to create a nest on the floor, a spot where Piper could lay down and sleep. Our mission to get Piper home safely was a study in cultural contrasts. 

My great challenge was to keep a faintly lucid Piper hydrated. “No, that would mean more trips to the bathroom,” she said, and stubbornly refused my entreaties to drink water. Her skin was clammy, and her heart was gradually beating faster. Always in the back of my mind: our next stop was Pennsylvania, where I would meet Piper’s parents for the first time. Would I deliver Piper to her father in an airport wheelchair, dehydrated and incoherent? Not on my life. 

A small display with take-out lunches fed the three of us, and I contemplated my next move. Spirit provided a solution when I spied a lesser-known brand of electrolyte sports drink. I bought two bottles, one for Piper and one for myself.

Then I changed tactics: I challenged Piper to a drinking game. I said, “I will match you shot for shot. Every time you drink, I will too.” Hallelujah, she went for it! By the time we fastened our seatbelts on the plane to Pittsburgh, Piper’s pulse had slowed, and soon she came back to normal awareness. She never remembered a thing about the trip from the Cusco hotel to Pittsburgh. 

I wasn’t overly concerned about the impression I made on her parents during that first visit. Whatever they thought, it would be better than if I had delivered Piper in a state of delirium. At the start of our marriage, Piper and I dove head first into the true work of a spiritual relationship. We bonded, supported one another, and lightened our karmic burdens as we navigated the great road trip that is life. 

Please note: Al and Piper Coffman appear in the Feature Photo at Machu Picchu; all photos courtesy of Al Coffman.
1. Inigo was named after the tragically heroic character in the movie Princess Bride. 

Al Coffman has a long-time interest in researching the spiritual teachings of the world and discovering how they are related on the family tree of the Holy Spirit. How can they make our lives better and increase our capacity for love?  

His current passion is capturing the events of daily life in writing and uncovering the insights they have to offer. Al is an aspiring author, avid reader, and international event coordinator. He loves to travel when given half a chance.